


Endgame

by unilocular



Category: NCIS
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 22:30:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 22,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3954223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unilocular/pseuds/unilocular
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Sergei Mishnev, Diane's death was just the beginning. His next objective is to destroy Gibbs' beloved team.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hinky_hippo did an incredible job with her artwork, not only the original one that inspired this story, but also the final one above. I'm blown away at how she managed to capture the essence of the story into a single image. It was a joy and an honor to work with her on this piece.
> 
> naemi helped whip this story into shape by beta'ing another monster for me. There aren't enough words to thank her for all of her hard work by kicking my butt again with the grammar rules. Hopefully, she won't read this again and find out I didn't listen to her about those pesky m-dashes. ;) Without her, the story - and myself - would never have reached its full potential.
> 
> jesco0307 did an amazing job as a cheerleader by constantly reassuring me this story (and my characterization of Tony) was fine just as it is. If it weren't for her, the climax would never have turned out the way it did. Thank you so much for all of your e-mails and for reading (and re-reading) my chapters.

** **

 

**Wednesday, January 14, 2015 - 12:21pm – 2311 H St NE, Kingman Park, Washington, DC –**

It all ends here. At this ordinary house on this sleepy, dead-end street.

Here, Sergei Mishnev will die for his sins.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs tightens his grip on his Sig and checks on his team. Both junior agents, Tim McGee and Ellie Bishop, hold their weapons, clearly awaiting orders. Ellie rocks in her boots, her knuckles going white against her gun. Tim worries a loose thread on his coat sleeve, the single betrayal to the easy confidence he works so hard to exude.

Several feet behind them, Tony DiNozzo speaks in clipped tones into his cell. Checking in with headquarters, as per Gibbs' order. He rakes his hand through his hair as he relays the address on the mailbox. As he slides his phone away and regroups, his face turns grim.

"Back-up is seven minutes out, Boss," he says.

"He could be gone by then," Gibbs replies. "I don't want this bastard getting away." The _again_ goes unspoken.

Half-nodding, Tony unholsters his weapon. "Our intel shows he should be alone. So what's our play, boss?"

"McGee and Bishop will go around back. DiNozzo, with me. Standard take-down."

Gibbs grinds his teeth, determined not to tell his team today's standard take-down involves a bullet between Mishnev's eyes. Based on the way Tony shifts his weight, he already understands. But, thankfully, he doesn't say anything. Instead, he shoots his younger teammates a tight nod.

"On it, Boss," Tim and Ellie chorus.

Then they head around the back of the house with Tim in the lead.

As soon as he's sure they're in position, Gibbs motions for Tony to follow him. They slink across the snow-filled yard, the mud and slush clinging to their shoes. It soaks into Gibbs' socks, but wet feet will be a small price to pay to nail the dirtbag who killed Diane.

He silently creeps up the rotting porch steps, cringing at how they sag and groan under his weight. As though his load is too much to bear. When he leans against the vinyl siding, it cracks and pops underneath his shoulder. Tony joins him seconds later, his left hand reaching for the door knob. Their panting breaths escape in frosted plumes; the calm before the storm.

_This one's for you, Diane._

"You ready, boss?" Tony asks.

Something in Gibbs' gut clenches, but he ignores it, instead giving Tony the go-ahead nod.

One flick of Tony's wrist jerks the door open. Then he shifts out of the way. Rolling onto the balls of his feet, Gibbs leads them into the house. The interior is small and cozy, a mid-century rancher with a spartan layout. Living room to the right, bedrooms to the left. Figuring Tim and Ellie will enter through the back door into the kitchen and clear the living quarters first, Gibbs and Tony head left.

All of the bedrooms are empty, bare walls stripped down to their studs. For what is supposed to be Mishnev's newest safe house, this place looks like it's been abandoned for years.

Gibbs nods at Tony, tells him to take the lead as they double-back. When they move into the living room, his shoes crunch over scattered scraps of insulation and loose nails. Gibbs shoots Tony a look as though to ask whether their intel was correct.

Raising his eyebrows, Tony returns it with a one-shouldered shrug.

But the admission of bad information doesn't alleviate the clench in Gibbs' gut. Right now, he just wants to regroup and get back to the bullpen to find out where Mishnev really is.

As they round the corner, he finds exactly what he came for.

Sergei Mishnev stands in the middle of what should be a dining room. Loose wires from a missing chandelier hang free over his head. His arms are crossed, his biceps bulging against his thin jacket. He wears a smile, foreboding and humorous. Like he has some secret that he'll never tell.

Gibbs smirks when he notices Mishnev doesn't have a weapon.

_So the bastard didn't even bother to bring a gun to his own funeral._

Mishnev's smile transforms into a sadistic grin. "Thank you for joining me, Agent Gibbs."

"Didn't have much of a choice, Sergei," he says, lifting his gun.

When Mishnev raises his hands, Tony inhales sharply. Narrowing his eyes, Gibbs takes a step closer to his target and away from his senior agent.

"Boss?" Tony calls.

The title is meant to snap Gibbs back to reality, remind him to follow procedure.

But where will that get them?

Mishnev will be deported back to the Motherland as soon as his pet diplomat sets him free. While Gibbs will return to his casework, constantly checking over his shoulder until Mishnev's next attempt on his life. And next time, it might be someone closer to him than Diane who dies. One of his team or his support team could be the victim.

No, that isn't the way it's meant to end. Protocol won't get him what he wants, but revenge will. A prison cell is a welcome trade to keep his family and friends safe, the perfect alternative to letting this monster roam.

When Mishnev meets Gibbs' glare, his grin turns feral like a predator with cornered prey. Gibbs matches it, his finger tightening on the trigger. The niggling in his gut kicks up again.

He's so close to ending this.

"You know, Agent Gibbs, this went exactly as I planned."

Gibbs' grip falters as he searches Mishnev's eyes for some meaning. There's nothing there, just an unnatural blankness. Like a man who's already dead, doomed to haunt the earth until the end of time.

When Mishnev snaps his fingers, two massive and broad-shouldered henchmen drag Tim and Ellie into the room at gunpoint. One has an arm locked around Tim's neck with a gun on his temple, while the other holds Ellie tightly around her waist.

"Boss," Tim starts, "we got am – " The arm jerked against his throat cuts him off.

"You leave my team alone. This is between us."

Mishnev shakes his head. "It ceased to be when you killed my brother."

Gibbs' brow furrows. "Your brother?"

"You know who I speak of."

Squinting at the man, Gibbs wracks his brain for some connection to his past. Sure, he killed dozens of people in the service of his country, both as a sniper and an agent. He's pretty sure most of them had brothers.

But then he notices something familiar in the high forehead, those wide-set and dead eyes, the long nose. The face is nearly identical to the one in the picture that used to hang over the bullpen and terrorize his team many years ago. It's the same one he pictured again and again, hunched over the sniper rifle every time Gibbs thought about Kate's death.

He inhales. "Ari Haswari."

"Well done, Agent Gibbs," Mishnev says. "I am happy you still recall my brother's name."

"He murdered one of my agents."

"Then he served his family well." Something that might be pride passes over Mishnev's features. Like he's pleased someone in his family could intimidate Gibbs and his team, threaten to rip them apart.

Gibbs sets his jaw, tries not to think about the day Kate died and how his team nearly self-destructed in their hunt for her killer. Everything hit its climax when their newest recruit, Ziva David, put a bullet in her half-brother's head in Gibbs' basement. Even though it's been over ten years, he still smells the reek of gunpowder and blood emanating from the concrete floor on frigid nights.

The chill travels through his veins.

"Boss!" Tony calls again, his tone anxious and uneasy.

When he checks over his shoulder, another huge man holds a gun against Tony's neck.

Gibbs presses his lips together, flicks his gaze back to Mishnev. "Alright, Sergei, whaddya want? You didn't do this to catch up on old times."

"You're right, Gibbs." That sick, twisted smile returns. "You took my family away so I came to take yours."

Gibbs starts to pull the trigger, but he doesn't make it.

Something slams into his back, sending electricity coursing through his body. Every muscle spasms with a mind of its own, twitching and dancing at random. He crumples to the filthy ground, writhing and sputtering, unable to even breathe.

"Boss," Tony yells.

Then all hell breaks loose.

Shoes scuff against the hardwood floor as the henchmen hustle Gibbs' team away. Someone fights back. The sick slap of flesh on flesh from two people pounding each other fills his ears. The loser hits the ground so hard that the planks tremble, but all Gibbs can do is grunt.

He tries to get up, but none of his muscles work anymore. Even though his mind begs him to stay awake, darkness sneaks towards him. It promises to spirit him away to some place safe. To somewhere else, so he won't have to listen to his team's abduction.

That he can just rest.

But he fights it with everything he has left.

He needs to stay here. For them.

When a hand clamps down on his shoulder, he can't move away. Hot, rancid breath hits his face, smelling like the Chinese food Tony tends to leave out during their all-nighters.

"You have twenty-four hours to find me and exchange yourself for them," Mishnev says, the hint of a smile in his voice. "If not, I send your agents back to you. Piece by piece."


	2. Chapter 2

**2:28pm – St. Boniface Medical Center Emergency Department – Washington, DC –**

Consciousness never abandons Gibbs, but only snippets of reality manage to reach him. The scream of an ambulance here, a paramedic's careful touch there. Movement comes back too, slowly at first. His fingers and toes twitch. Then his hands move at his command.

By the time he arrives in the emergency room, he's back to normal. If you consider the pounding in his head and that damned twitch in his right eyelid normal.

Despite his – loud – protests, the medical personnel hook him up to every type of monitor they have available, glue all sorts of random wires to him, and check his vital signs every five minutes. He tries to tell them he needs to save his team, but they don't listen.

They just won't listen.

Maybe it's because his tongue still isn't quite right. It's grown too big for his mouth after the taser, no good for anything but rolling off teeth and soft tissue in some vain attempt to make noise. He growls and grouses, but he can't produce any useful sound.

After a sympathetic smile and a pat on his shoulder, the nurses leave him alone again.

_I need to get the hell out of here. I need to find them._

Breaking out of a hospital room shouldn't be all that difficult. He's escaped drug lords, terrorists, and even a Russian gulag once. Why should this be any different? If anything, this should be a piece of cake.

He shifts over to sneak a peek of the hallway. His clothes and shoes are in the bag by the door, partially obscuring his view. As far as he can tell, his room is only a few feet from the ambulance bay and with that, a direct line to freedom. The only potential problem is a bustling nurse's station down the hall.

When he yanks one of the sticky pads from his chest, one of those damned machines starts screaming like he's dying, alerting everyone in the hospital to his attempted jailbreak.

Milliseconds later, a heavyset nurse darts into the room. When Gibbs yanks off another lead, the concern melts from her face and turns her gaze to daggers.

"Sir, don't touch that," she says. "Please."

"My team," he slurs, but it only comes out as a mash of syllables.

She herds him back into bed and replaces the leads to silence the machine. "I know. I know. Those other agents will find your co-workers, but you need to stay here and get better."

His brow furrows. "How do you know?"

"Your friend told me." She smiles slightly. "So why don't you let the others do their job?"

He snorts at the thought of someone else searching for his team. Like they'll be able to do everything it takes to bring his family home. Whatever Mishnev is planning will be far too personal for the other MCRT to read the intricacies of this case. Try as they might, unless he does something, his team will die.

"Once I get these back on," she says, "I'll let your friend in to visit."

_My friend? Did Sergei send someone to finish the job?_

Groaning, he shifts back in the bed. As she double-checks the wires, he stares blankly at the ceiling. He tries to distract himself by counting the pockmarks on the drop tiles, but pictures of what Mishnev may have planned for his team fill his addled brain.

The nurse squeezes his shoulder, her nails biting through the gown and into the skin. Her touch is so caring, so compassionate that it makes his heart sink. People only do comforting things like this when they don't believe the words they're about to say.

"They'll be fine," she whispers. "Just you wait and see."

Then she's gone.

He keeps his eyes fixed on the ceiling as though it could stop his mind from replaying those visions. Like if he stares at the same spot long enough, the murder of his team will morph into Mishnev's death. Glancing away, he grinds his teeth until something starts to ache.

_If I hadn't sent them in…_

"No one could have seen this coming, Jethro," a familiar voice says. "Not even you."

Chuckling humorlessly, Gibbs looks to the door. Still wearing his trench coat, Donald Mallard clasps his hat as he watches his friend carefully. He moves closer to take a seat by the bed.

"This is not your – "

"You're damn right it is!" Gibbs growls, but his freaking tongue decided to stop working again.

Blinking, the doctor nods like he understands. "You wanted to avenge Diane's death in the only way you knew how, Jethro."

"And put my whole team in danger."

Ducky sighs quietly. "Revenge has a way of causing the most level headed men make regrettable decisions. Consider the - "

"I'm not here for stories, Duck," Gibbs says, his words finally growing more coherent.

"Maybe so, but you are here to get checked out after that taser. Thankfully, Dr. Andersen said the voltage shouldn't have been enough to cause any lasting damage to your heart. But even still, they would like to keep you for observation for a few more hours."

Gibbs makes a face. "And my team?"

"Director Vance has the entire agency looking for Sergei Mishnev. You'll be able to lend assistance as soon as Dr. Andersen declares you fit for duty."

Screwing his features in disgust, Gibbs meets Ducky's eyes. "I'm fit now."

"Not quite." Ducky leans forward. "The shock gave you an abnormal heart-rate which the doctors needed to shock back into normal sinus rhythm. They need to ensure your heart is steady before – "

"Sergei's going to kill everyone, Duck." Gibbs' heart flutters and he steadies himself against the bed. "DiNozzo, McGee, Bishop, all of them. That bastard is Ari's brother."

Ducky's posture stiffens. "You mean Ari Haswari?"

"Yeah."

"We haven't spoken that name in years."

Gibbs nods tightly. "What do you think this guy's capable of, Duck?"

The doctor's worried expression darkens further as he wrings the hat in his hands. "Given the family's penchant for violence and what we know of Ziva's past, I believe Sergei Mishnev could be capable of – " he breathes deeply, stops to stare at the hat brim that grows warped and distorted under his fingers, " - anything. I believe he would stop at nothing to exact his revenge. It appears that he's escalating, given how he moved on from Diane directly to your team."

"Already knew that."

Ducky shifts in his seat. "Perhaps you could use a cup of coffee? Decaf, of course. I know I would enjoy some tea."

Nodding, Gibbs looks away. "Yeah, that'd be great."

After rising, Ducky places his hat and jacket on the chair. Then he shifts to the heart-rate monitor. He presses a few buttons.

"Trying to remember what they use on the living, Duck?"

He chuckles. "It never hurts to keep abreast of all the newest technology. Quite fascinating, if I may say so." Gibbs rolls his eyes as Ducky heads to his side. "Black, right?"

Gibbs nods. "Just like always."

Ducky lingers by the bed for a moment, staring at Gibbs as though this might be the last time they see each other. Cracking a wry smile, the team leader holds his medical examiner's gaze. And he's right because as soon as he leaves, Gibbs will make good on that escape. Except when they're reunited, it sure as hell won't be in autopsy. He doesn't want to say it, just in case he might jinx himself.

Finally, Ducky grips Gibbs' hand. "Good luck, Jethro."

"Thanks."

Then the medical examiner heads out of the room. Once he's alone, Gibbs plucks a lead off his chest. He braces himself, waiting for the machine to start screaming. It doesn't.

Quickly, Gibbs rips the rest of the wires off his chest and scrambles out of bed. He scoops his clothes up, yanking them on before the nurse comes to check on him. He fumbles through his pockets, but his wallet's missing. One of the bastards who abducted his team picked his pocket too. His cell phone's still there, but he turns it off so NCIS won't be able to find him.

He heads for the door, then double-takes at Ducky's jacket. Biting his lower lip, Gibbs knows there's no other way. He won't get far in Washington with no money and a dead cell phone.

He reaches into the breast pocket to remove Ducky's wallet. When he pulls out the keys to the Morgan too, he shakes his head. Even he won't stoop so low to steal his friend's prized car, but he will borrow the wallet. He makes a mental promise to pay Ducky back once this is all over.

When he slams the jacket back onto the seat, he feels a lump underneath Ducky's hat. There's a standard-issue Sig Sauer stashed beneath everything.

_So you knew all along, Duck._

The hint of a smile pulls at Gibbs' lip. Without a second thought, he tucks the weapon into the small of his back. As he runs his hands along his pants, he feels something in his back pocket.

Frowning, he yanks out a wadded up piece of paper. His frown deepens as he unfolds it to find an address scrawled in an unsteady, sloping hand. One of the R's is written backwards, the slip of the author into their native Cyrillic.

_This is on the other side of Washington. Could it be where Sergei took them?_

He inhales deeply, scowls at the scent of hospital disinfectant.

_It's too easy. There's another part to this game._

The steady thud of footsteps just outside the room rips him from his thoughts. When they stop, he strains his ears. If that nurse comes back, he'll never get out of here. But when he hears the quiet lilt of Ducky's murmurs, he smirks. So the medical examiner must've intercepted her. Based on the hushed tones, Gibbs thinks his friend might be flirting with the nurse.

Whatever they're talking about, it's a sign to get the hell out of here. Ducky'll only be able to keep her busy for a little while. Well, maybe not.

_I don't know how he does better with women than DiNozzo._

The very thought of Tony causes guilt to bubble in Gibbs' chest, reminding him how he couldn't protect his team. Just like he couldn't protect Shannon and Kelly from being murdered. How they were left to bleed out in an old rusted truck while he slept in a bunk on the other side of the world.

It won't happen again. He can't lose his another family.

Rolling onto the balls of his feet, Gibbs sneaks to the door. He checks to make sure the coast is clear and that nurse is distracted by Ducky. Then he darts into the hallway. Without bothering to look back, he slips through the ambulance bay doors.

Cold air slaps him in the face, sending shivers through his body, and he draws his coat tighter. Dark, angry clouds chased away the jubilant January sun, dressing the afternoon in shadows. Fat snowflakes tumble from the sky, one by one, as Gibbs scans the parking lot for a car.

Just by the entrance to the Emergency Department, a man helps a hysterical, very pregnant woman inside. Their ancient Honda sits by the curb, its engine idling. Rolling up the collar of his jacket, Gibbs lowers his head and slips closer. When he glances through the hospital's picture window, the couple is too preoccupied with a nurse to notice him.

So he jumps into their car and zooms away.


	3. Chapter 3

**3:18pm – Unknown Place –**

"McGee? What should I do?" Ellie whispers.

The terror creeping into her voice is real and raw, just like that in his heart. Even though Tim doesn't look at her, he feels her questioning stare piercing through him. It's the same one usually reserved for Gibbs when she doesn't know whether a seemingly innocuous piece of evidence is important. Or Tony when she has no idea where to start at a crime scene.

_And now, she's asking me whether we'll survive. Like I have a fucking clue._

But there's no way he'll tell her that. Not when there's a chance they might get out of here alive.

Instead, his bound hands use a piece of scrap metal as a makeshift screwdriver against the hinge on the door to their prison. All he has to do is loosen the screws so they can remove door and escape. It always looks so easy in the movies, but real life? Well, the work is tedious at best, since Mishnev's goons stole his and Tony's knives, but Tim still managed to free one screw so far.

Blood drips from the spots on his fingertips where the ragged metal tore through his flesh earlier. It drips all over the place, his brand new shirt, his pants, the grimy floor. He'll probably get tetanus from this, but it doesn't matter. None of it does.

He just needs to keep going until they're free. Or dead.

Then he can rest. Then he can worry about whether his keyboard will ever feel the same again.

A pair of hands grazes on his shoulders. "McGee?"

Ellie's touch might as well be a gunshot.

Flinching, he jerks away from her. When he opens his eyes again, he's staring at a strange patch of dirt on the wall. He wonders whether it's supposed to look like the Madonna or if it's just a trick played by a desperate mind searching for salvation in the dirtiest of places, trying to find meaning in what might be their last moments. He slams his hands against it, uses his blood to chase the last bits of hope away.

They're on their own.

"McGee? What should – "

"How's Tony?" he interrupts.

She hisses through her teeth. "Not good, McGee. I can't get him to wake up."

Tim doesn't know what to say, so he just nods.

His senior agent's worsening condition is his fault. If he hadn't let that thug sneak up on him at Mishnev's safe house, they wouldn't be here. If he'd fought back on the way out like Tony did, maybe his superior wouldn't be a bleeding mess.

But put a gun to Tim's head and he'll do whatever you want.

Like being ushered to a waiting van, allowing the goons to zip-tie his hands together and letting Tony get beat to a pulp while he tried to help them escape.

"We need to get him out of here," Ellie says, the tinges of hysteria returning.

He tries to take a calming breath, but it only fuels his fire. "What do you think I'm trying to do, Bishop?"

She recoils, her boots grinding over the loose stones and grime. Then she slinks away to join Tony.

Sighing, Tim turns back to those damned screws. Anything to avoid turning around and seeing them again. Once was more than enough to burn that image into his brain. Ellie kneeled with Tony's head resting on her thighs as she tried her best to wake him. He didn't look right with the gash on his forehead. The blood acted like a gut-wrenching mousse, spiking his hair at weird angles as it dried.

Tim's fingers begin to tremble as the third screw comes free. It falls to the ground with a satisfying _plink,_ bringing the hint of a smile to his lips. One hinge down, two to go.

He's ready to move onto the next when a quiet sound in the hallway makes his heart skip a beat. He presses his ear against the freezing metal, but he doesn't hear anything. Just as Tim breathes a sigh of relief, a thud like a door closing comes again.

Then there's the clamor of three distinct footsteps.

_Oh shit._

His heart kicks into overdrive, threatening to beat out of his chest. He throws himself to his feet, backpedaling when Ellie appears by his side.

Her wide eyes look up. "McGee? What's - "

"Someone's coming."

Her breath comes out in a little gasp, but Tim barely catches it over that freaking _whoosh_ in his ears. She wraps her hands around his forearm, digs her nails in deep enough to cut through all layers of his clothing.

It only makes his heart beat harder, and he begs it to stop. Just stop.

"What do we do?" Ellie whispers.

He's about to admit he doesn't know when he hazards a glance at Tony. Still unconscious, the senior agent looks worse than Tim remembered. His immaculate suit is covered in dirt, filth, and what might be motor oil. His neck twists at an unnatural angle.

But the worst part, by far, is Tony's face. His cheeks are a mash of purple and red with no space left for his normal coloring. His left eye is completely black, so swollen it resembles something from their crime scene photos. The blood caked around his upper lip and chin extends all the way up to his nose. The rasping breaths through his mouth make his whole body shake.

Tim shudders.

_That's going to hurt when Tony wakes up. If –_

"McGee?"

"We fight, Bishop." He sucks in a deep breath, still searching for that nonexistent calm. "Just wait for my signal."

Surprisingly, she gives no protest, but nods and releases his arm. After she hustles to the corner to retrieve the screws off the ground, she hands him one. While they're not great weapons, it's better to take a stand with something rather than nothing. Even if it is a two inch long screw and a rusty piece of metal.

When the door unlocks, Tim's heart hammers in his chest.

Please just stop, he begs it again.

Seconds later, three of Mishnev's henchmen flood into the room with their guns raised. In all the excitement earlier, he never even saw their faces. One good-looking, one bald, one ugly.

Tim swears that Tony says, "This reminds me of a movie."

"Back up," Baldy orders, "both of you."

At the sight of the weapon in his face, Tim's stance falters. But Ellie leans into his shoulder, close enough to remind him of her presence, so he holds his ground, shakes his head.

"You move now," Baldy snaps again.

When they don't, the three men take a step closer. Tim sets his jaw, readying himself for a fight.

_Now or never._

All it takes is a single nod from him to launch them into a hopeless, Hail Mary escape attempt. Ellie kicks Handsome in his family jewels, dropping him to the ground.

As the other two approach Tim, he drives his shoulder into Ugly's gut. But the man doesn't even flinch. When the gun inches towards his head, Tim grabs it. He shoves the weapon towards the ceiling. Three shots ring out. As Ugly fights to lower his weapon, Tim grinds his heel into the other man's foot. Ugly squeals, recoiling.

Then suddenly, he stops moving.

Tim senses the movement behind him a second too late. Before he has a chance to turn around, someone grabs him. The hold pins Tim's arms at his side and forces the air from his lungs. He struggles to take a breath, but the grip is just too tight. Tim gasps, chokes on his own spit.

Black spots swarm his vision. His motions slow.

_This must be what dying feels like._

He gags. "Bishop."

Just when he's about to pass out, the man holding him lets out a feral shriek. The arms around Tim's chest release and he gulps down as much oxygen as his lungs can handle. He stumbles in a tight circle, unable to figure out why Baldy should be screaming like his heart's being ripped out.

That's when Tim sees Ellie. On Baldy's back.

Her bound hands are wrapped around his neck as he fights to throw her off. It takes a moment for Tim to see that her fingers are smashed into Baldy's eyes like she might rip them out of his head.

Bile bites the back of Tim's throat. When he launches himself at Ugly, one solid hook to his jaw ends the fight. Tim drops to the ground, stunned. He tries to push himself up, but he doesn't get there in time.

Baldy slams his back - and Ellie - against the wall.

Her breath comes out in a huge gasp and her grip loosens. There are one, two, three more slams and Tim feels every single one. When she goes slack, Baldy yanks her off his back. Then he drops her to the ground as though she weighs nothing at all.

She gives a little moan before she stops moving.

_Oh G-d, not her too._

Tim scrambles to his unsteady feet, just in time for two guns to point in his direction. Adrenaline courses through his veins, making his muscles beg for him to act. But when the world tilts sideways, he stumbles towards Bishop. He only makes a single step before he falls to his knees.

Ugly laughs sadistically as he tucks his gun into his jeans. "So which one do we bring?"

"The woman," Baldy says, hands pressed against his face.

Tim's heart wedges itself in his throat as they move towards Ellie. His team can't be separated, not under his watch. If he loses either Tony or Ellie, he'll never see his teammate again.

Tim climbs to his feet, as though that's an act of survival itself. "You're not taking them anywhere."

His bravery earns him a sadistic chuckle from Handsome and Ugly. But Baldy pulls the hands from his face for a better view, revealing eyes that are turning black and rapidly swelling.

When the man heads towards Ellie, Tim sprints towards him. He shoves Baldy into the nearest wall. In the blink of an eye, their positions are reversed. Tim's back is flat against the rough cinderblocks and an uncompromising arm presses against his throat. His breath comes in shallow gasps.

When Baldy brings his gun to rest on Tim's neck, his entire body goes rigid in preparation for a bullet. He'd rather take one than let these men separate his team.

"Leave the woman," Baldy orders.

They hold each other's gaze. The goon's thick lips part to reveal blunted, rotten nubs of what used to be teeth. If he didn't know any better, Tim might think the man's attempting to smile.

_They're going to split us up. Maybe they'll take me since I'm the only one awake._

_That way I could buy Tony and Bishop time until Gibbs finds us._

Cold sweat cascades down his back as he notices Handsome and Ugly sliding towards Tony. He throws his weight against his captor.

"Tony!" Tim yells, thrashing harder. "Tony!"

Baldy slams his weapon against Tim's face, snapping his head sideways. Blackness swirls around Tim as he lands on the floor in a cloud of dust. It tickles his nose, begging him to chase it away, but he doesn't have the energy. He just lies there, unable to move, as Ugly and Handsome scoop up Tony.

Tim's eyes close, but they don't open again. Just like the rest of him, they don't work anymore. None of his body responds to his orders to get up and fight again.

But it doesn't matter anyway.

Tim's brain is too busy spiriting him away to that weekend last year when Tony showed up unannounced with Chinese food and all five _Die Hard_ movies. While Washington was tucked in under a blanket of snow, they learned how John McClane took down Russian dirtbags over and over again. He just wants to hear Tony say, "Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker," one more time.

_But I won't because I'm never going to see Tony again._


	4. Chapter 4

**4:45pm – Unknown Place –**

The ground moves beneath Tony's feet, but he barely registers that he's moving too. His brain whirls, lurking somewhere between sleep and wake, as the jolting motions brings him further around. Two strong sets of hands grip his armpits, holding him upright and forcing him forward. An active conversation in Russian is taking place over his head.

But now isn't the time to fight, so he keeps his body lax, pretending to still be unconscious. He hazards a slit-eyed glance of the floor, but there's only linoleum tiles – so grimy they've turned grey – sliding beneath his feet. They blur together, forcing him to close his eyes and suck in a deep breath.

Nausea kicks up in his stomach.

_We haven't been moving for very long, I hope._

His memory is patchwork at best, bits and pieces of the team's abduction stitched together, and ending here, being dragged through this place by these goons.

The last thing he remembers is that moment in the van. Tim held his gaze, trying so hard to be brave while he waited for an order. But Tony couldn't tell him to fight, knowing Mishnev's men would slaughter them there. So he took it upon himself to fight for the three of them, making sure to keep the goons away from his team until someone cracked a gun against the back of his head.

_Yeah, I did a damned good job at keeping them safe. Now I don't even know where the hell they are…_

When the men drag Tony through a doorway, the plummeting temperature leaves him shivering. Cold, damp air floods his nostrils with the stench of stale motor oil, rust, and traces of decomposing metal. There's something underneath it all, familiar and unnerving. Pungent and rotten. It reminds him of nearly every crime scene he's ever worked.

His heart drops into his stomach.

_Oh fuck, it's blood. Old blood._

Tony snaps his head up, instantly regretting the action. His vision blurs together into a demented carousel as the abandoned warehouse spins around him. Cement floor, lofted ceilings, and exposed cinderblocks all whirl around him. He focuses on the only spot that doesn't move.

The floor-to-ceiling delivery door stands open, granting him an uninterrupted view of the steel grey skies and the rolling waters of the Potomac.

Then the jackhammer kicks up in his brain.

If it weren't for the two men holding him, the pain would bring him to his knees. They drag him the last few steps and shove him into a waiting chair. Before he has a chance to fight back, they cut the zip-tie around his wrists and secure him to the arms of the chair with new ones. Then they fasten his ankles to its legs.

The freezing metal of the seat licks through Tony's clothes, works its way into his bones. He can't stop the shiver that ravages his body.

When his head lolls to his chest, his eyes catch the plastic tarp beneath his feet and the blood splattered all over the place. Everywhere. It's everywhere. There's so much that whoever it belongs to probably isn't even alive anymore. His chest tightens and he throws his head backwards, staring at the metal beams several stories overhead.

_That can't be McGee or Bishop's blood._

Something burns in his eyes and he bites his cheek hard enough to keep himself in the moment. He breathes sharply. In through the nose, he reminds himself, out through the mouth.

_Don't freak out. You won't help them, if you freak out._

"Fuck." He groans. "Fuck."

The blood doesn't belong to one of his teammates because today's a shitty day to die. The weather sucks. Cold and snowy, dark and depressing. Plus, they still have a case to finish. He doubts that Gibbs gave abyone permission to die before their reports are collated and filed. No one's allowed to die because it would mean more work for the boss.

_They're alive. Until I see a body, McGee and Bishop are alive._

Someone nearby gives a nasty laugh. Ripping his gaze off the ceiling, Tony stares at the three men surrounding him. Like a herd of lions about to rip their dinner apart.

The closest one is ridiculously good-looking, despite the black bruises marring his chiseled cheeks. Tony wonders whether he got into torturing people because he couldn't hack it as a model. The second has a bald head so shiny it reflects the warehouse back at them. His eyes are so swollen they don't look like they're even open. But the last one, well…Tony can barely stand to look at him. The lumpy, pock-marked face makes Tony finally understand the saying, 'a face only a mother could love.'

_They really could try out for 'The Good-Looking, The Bald, and the Ugly." Well, make that the really, really ugly._

In spite of his situation, Tony laughs.

_All I need is Clint Eastwood._

Drawing closer, Ugly pulls himself to his full height. "What's so funny?"

"Your face," Tony replies.

The punch whips his head sideways, splitting open his bottom lip. Blood dribbles down his chin to join the mess on his already destroyed suit. When Ugly winds up for another punch, Tony glares at the man. This one connects with his cheek, making Tony's vision blur again.

Groaning, he sinks back in his seat. Ugly reels his fist back again.

"That's enough!" someone snaps.

Visibly flinching, Ugly moves out of the way. He stands off to the side of the group, flexing his hand and inspecting his bloodied knuckles. The group parts to let a shorter, stockier figure join them.

Sergei Mishnev looms over Tony like something out of his nightmares.

"Thank you for joining me, Agent DiNozzo."

"You could've called. I would've brought dinner," Tony shoots back, smirking.

"I doubt you and your team would've been eager to – " Mishnev matches the grin, searching for the right word before he settles on " – partake in my festivities."

"Oh, so we're having a party? Maybe we should go grab some wine."

"A party." Mishnev taps a finger against his cheek. "That I like the sound of. As soon Agent Gibbs gets to where he's supposed to be."

Tony shifts higher in the chair. "Close enough to put a bullet between your eyes."

Shrugging, Mishnev glances around the huge space and Tony follows his gaze. There isn't anything here to vaguely resemble a sniper's perch. Only vast miles of choppy river waves that stretch to the horizon until they melt into the rapidly darkening sky.

He licks his lips, takes in the rest of the warehouse.

In addition to the cast of _The Good, the Bald, and The Really, Really Ugly,_ there's a metal rolling table with a leather bag and a video camera with its record light flashing.

"Perhaps you are thinking about this wrong," Mishnev says.

Tony raises his eyebrows. "And I bet you're going to fill me in, huh?"

_I might as well get this bastard monologuing until Gibbs finds us._

Mishnev turns to stare out at the Potomac. Then he rests his hands on his hips. "You think you and your team are important in all this, don't you, Agent DiNozzo?" Tony recoils, his brow furrowing. "You think this entire thing has to do with you."

He doesn't know whether there's a right answer, so he tries, "Yes."

"Wrong again. You and your team are just pawns in a game greater than any of you."

Tony jerks his wrists against the zip-ties. "That's all this is to you? A fucking game?"

"It is revenge, my friend." Mishnev's head tilts as he runs his hand through his hair. "It is a game reserved for only the greatest Chess masters. And Gibbs unwittingly made the first move when he killed my brother. To challenge me was a fatal mistake."

Mishnev lets his words sink in as he stares at the river. Outside, the cloud roll past until they're nearly pitch-black and fat. Wet snowflakes tumble drunkenly, and then the world slowly grows white. The wind kicks up, slamming water against the dock in huge sprays.

Tony's hitched breathes come in frosty puffs, dispelling into the air like the ghost he'll soon become. Shuddering, he struggles to chase the chill away, but it twists in his gut, sitting there like a knife.

"Why not just kill us now and get it over with?" he asks.

Mishnev turns back, a sadistic smile cut across his face. "Because I want to see the look in Gibbs' eyes when I take your life." The thought sends a chill down Tony's spine. "Not to mention, I had a question I wanted to ask you, Agent DiNozzo."

Tony cocks his head, intrigued. "Fire away."

"How do I get into the NCIS building?"

"No, no way." He makes a face. "There's no way in hell I'll answer that."

"That was the response I had expected," Mishnev says, moving towards the agent.

Handsome follows, dragging the metal cart with him. The wheels shriek from the abuse, but Tony doesn't hear it.

Instead, he focuses his attention on the leather case Handsome opens. Metal instruments are lined up on the cart with a surgeon's care, making Tony's breath hitch. He recognizes most of them from Ducky's autopsy tables. They seemed so much smaller – so much safer – when they were laid out next to a corpse.

But now that they're meant for him…

He sucks in a deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

_Don't freak out. Don't – oh fuck it, I'm so screwed._

Mishnev pulls on a pair of gloves, sure to give the latex a disconcerting snap on the end. Then he traces his fingers along the instruments, focusing a bit of extra attention to the scalpel.

_Where the hell are you, boss?_

"Agent DiNozzo, how do I get into the NCIS building?"

Tony snaps his eyes away from Mishnev and his toys, stares out at the Potomac instead. When the wind roars past, it sends the snow sideways for a moment. He presses his lips together, swallows hard.

Focus on something normal.

_That hot weather girl on Channel 2 forgot to mention the snowstorm. Well, I guess it's a good thing she looks cute in a double-breasted blazer._

When freezing metal grazes his left ear, Tony flinches, recoiling. But the blade follows him, flirting with the hollow of his neck and coming to rest on his carotid artery. It rises and falls with every beat of his heart.

"How do I get into the building, DiNozzo?" Mishnev hisses the question in Tony's ear. His breath is hot and foul, smelling like rotten eggs and onions.

"If you need a breath mint," Tony quips, "try my back pocket. They're wintergreen."

Mishnev genuinely laughs. "That's why I chose you first, Agent DiNozzo. Compared to you, the rest of your team will be easy to break. But you – "that sick smile appears again " – you'll be a challenge."

"Knock yourself out."

"I intend to." He guides the blade down Tony's arm. "Now, how do I get into the building?"

But Tony doesn't say a word, just stares back out at the Potomac. The snowstorm captivates him as Mishnev cuts into his forearm. The pain burns white-hot in the freezing air, making his breath come in rasping gasps. Even though the wound is superficial, it has its own heartbeat.

_Tim and Ellie are counting on me to hold on. To save them._

Mishnev makes a second incision, deeper this time.


	5. Chapter 5

**6:44pm – 5678 Newhaven St NW, 16** **th** **Street Heights Neighborhood – Washington DC ––**

Behind the wheel of his stolen Honda, Gibbs keeps his eyes fixed on his target. Smack dab in the middle of a line of row homes is the address listed on his paper. So this is the house Mishnev led him to. Rundown with more plywood on its windows than glass and a caving roof, it certainly looks like it's abandoned. But the soft glow in the front window tells Gibbs otherwise.

When he first arrived, he crept through the knee-high grass and slush for a better look. His quick glances through the front window didn't turn up any sign of his team, only three broad-shouldered men with assault rifles and bad haircuts. Ex-Russian military, he bets. To launch a full-assault then with only a Sig Sauer seemed suicidal, especially when he didn't have a confirmed sighting of his team.

So he slunk back to the car for an impromptu stake-out.

_As soon as they split up, I'll question one of them._

Sighing, Gibbs shifts in his seat. The long hours of sitting the car and the taser's shock leave his muscles stiff and sore. Combined with the fact that he has no idea where his team could be, it rips his already frazzled nerves apart. After Diane's death, he thought he was becoming unhinged like Fornell.

But now. Now, he's going to lose it.

He searches for a more comfortable position, but the padding of the driver's seat has been mashed flat against the floor. Sighing, he squints through the snow as though he could will something to happen.

Nothing does.

His stomach roars, reminding him he hasn't eaten since breakfast. So he snatches a bag of chips off the floor. Since they were stuffed under the seat, he bets they probably expired months – if not years – ago, but he opens the bag anyway. He learned in the desert any sustenance was better than gnawing hunger and a foggy, distracted mind.

_Except for salt and vinegar chips. Maybe starving would be better._

But he eats them anyway. It serves as a distraction as he watches the house.

The minutes slip past, feeling oddly like hours, and the snow piles up on the car. Gibbs runs the engine a few times, just enough to use the windshield wipers.

Shortly after the fourth time, movement catches his attention. He squints through the rapidly reappearing snow to watch a tall, muscular man leave the house. When the man climbs down the porch step, Gibbs chucks the chips onto the passenger seat and retrieves his gun.

The man heads off in the direction of the neighborhood's tiny shopping district. Once he's several yards ahead, Gibbs slips out of the car. The air outside is just as frigid as inside, but the wind gives it a nasty bite. Pulling his coat tighter, Gibbs sets off in pursuit. Snow crunches under his boots as he stalks down the darkened street. His gut churns, desperate to know where the man is headed.

_Is he leading me to the team? Or maybe directly to Sergei?_

It takes several blocks before the decrepit residential area bleeds into the seedy stretch of storefronts. Liquor stores with grimy windows, strip clubs promising free lap dances, and a dive country western bar mingle with empty and abandoned buildings.

Even though the street is deserted, Gibbs tucks his Sig into the back of his waistband. He unsheathes the hunting knife on his hip, then slides it up his sleeve as he moves under a streetlamp.

Here, he won't take any chances.

When the man ducks in a building, Gibbs wonders whether that's where Mishnev holds his team.

Then he notices the sign for Jimmy Foo's Most Excellent Chinese Food. With its waxy, yellow halo glowing through the snow, it almost resembles the moon. It draws the man – and several other unsavory characters – out of their darkened recesses like moths to a flame.

Cursing under his breath, Gibbs slips into the closest alleyway. Hot air pumps through a vent overhead, filling the space with the familiar scent of Chinese food. He closes his eyes, indulges in just one memory about how the bullpen smells like this when they're pulling an all-nighter. The nostalgia vanishes as quickly as it came.

He presses his back against the wall, trying for a better view of the front door. People come and go through it as though Jimmy Foo's might be the most popular place in the whole neighborhood. Like it's the most popular place in the whole city.

Gibbs holds his breath, waiting for the one person he needs.

Once the man leaves, he'll launch his ambush.

The minutes drag and snow drips down his neck, slipping under the collar of his jacket. His back grows soaking wet, but he rests his head against the wall, trying to stave off the river. His freezing fingers clutch the knife tighter, finding odd comfort in its companionship.

When the man finally leaves the restaurant with two huge bags of food, Gibbs' muscles tense. He shifts towards the street, the knife weighing heavy in his hands. As the man sloshes along the sidewalk completely unawares, Gibbs grabs his jacket. The bags tip, sending greasy food flying everywhere, as Gibbs drags him deeper into the alley.

Before the man has a chance to fight back, Gibbs holds the knife to his neck. The man stares at Gibbs for a moment, then his eyes grow wide.

"Where are they?" Gibbs growls.

When the man doesn't respond, Gibbs digs the weapon deeper into the man's neck. It breaks the skin, producing a rivulet of blood and making the man gasp.

"Where. Are. They?"

Taking a steadying breath, the man shrinks against the wall. "I don't know what you talk about."

"Stop screwing around. You know exactly what I'm talking about. Where the hell is my team?"

The man holds his hands up, says in Russian: _"Shit, shit. I bet that bastard Mishnev knew this was going to happen."_

_"Knew what was going to happen?'_

_"You speak Russian too?"_ When Gibbs nods, the man pulls a face. _"I bet he knew you'd come to kill us, but he never said anything. Just told us to complete our objective."_

_"What does that have to do with my team?"_

_"I don't know."_

Gibbs takes a fistful of the man's shirt and slams him into the wall.

_"I swear, I don't know. We were just supposed to show you what happens to people who cross him."_

_"What's this 'showing me'?"_

When the man doesn't reply, Gibbs presses the knife deeper until he provokes a gasp. _"On the television, there is a video of people he trains. Perhaps these are your friends?"_

Gibbs actually growls. _"You'll take me there."_

_"When?"_

_"Now!"_

The man jerks his head towards the street. _"Then you need to let me go."_

Gibbs moves his free hand to grip the man's right arm, and then slowly removes the knife. As it moves towards his ribs, the man slams his head into Gibbs' face. Stunned, the agent staggers back into the opposite wall. Bile bites the back of his throat.

_If he gets loose, my team is dead._

But thankfully, the man isn't concerned with his own escape. He creeps towards Gibbs like a hulking monster. Once he's close enough, Gibbs throws a left hook. The man stumbles a few steps, working his jaw and rubbing his cheek. Just as Gibbs winds up for another punch, the man throws his body forward.

Both of them land in the mess of slush and Chinese food. The knife skitters out of Gibbs' hand. When he follows it, the man grabs Gibbs. Strong hands wrap around Gibbs' neck, choking the life out of him. Gasping, he claws at the man's face. One thumb jammed against the man's eyelid loosens his grip.

Rolling away, Gibbs chokes on his own breath. His shaking hands search for the weapon. He just need to regain control of this situation.

One of their phones rings.

Gibbs discovers his knife, buried in snow and slimy chicken. He grabs the handle and yanks it free, shaking a vegetable off the blade.

He whips back around, weapon at the ready.

At the same moment, the man launches another attack. His huge hands crash around Gibbs' neck again, but immediately go slack. The man dips forward, nearly crushing Gibbs under his enormous weight.

Then the hot liquid splashes all over Gibbs' hands.

_Blood._

He jerks backwards, taking the knife with him. The man gives a shuddering breath as he collapses onto the ground. While Gibbs climbs to his feet, the blood blossoms from the man's abdomen. It pools under his back, staining the pure white snow.

The man takes another rasping breath before it catches in his throat. A guttural rattle escapes the man's lips. It bounces off the alley walls, cutting through Gibbs.

Then the alley grows silent.

With his gut twisting into knots, Gibbs leans to press his fingers against the man's carotid.

No pulse.

Scrambling to his feet, Gibbs darts out onto the main thoroughfare. He doesn't think about who might find the body. At this point, he doesn't even care. He needs to get back to that house before the others realize their comrade isn't coming back alive.

His boots slap against the white concrete, slipping on the icy spots as he runs. Past the sleazy shops, past the rusted out cars, past the people who are so strung out they don't know where they are. All the way to the house where he was supposed to end up. There's an empty parking space out front, snow quickly replacing the missing vehicle.

But that doesn't mean they left, doesn't mean they might not still be here.

Maybe, just maybe.

Bounding up the creaky steps, Gibbs pulls the Sig out from his waistband. How could he forget it was even there? Maybe if he'd bothered to use it, he would've been able to get more information out of that man in the alley. Then maybe everything would be different.

He peeks in the front window, but the house empty. So he kicks the front door open and he darts into the living room, gun raised. While the interior should surprise him, he doesn't: flood lights and an empty chair in an abandoned building; a perfect little urban hideaway for torture.

The television in the corner catches his interest. The screen fuzzes in and out with static, alternating with an image of a seated figure. With his head lolled forward, Gibbs can't make out the face. Only his dark hair and tattered remains of a suit jacket are visible under the bright light.

Gibbs' heart pounds.

_Could that be DiNozzo or McGee?_

He lowers his weapon, sneaks closer until the image is no longer blurry. That's when he notices the blood all over the man's torso and arms. Gibbs never believed people could contain so much until he worked his first crime scene. But how is that man still alive?

Then the figure struggles to lift his head as he looks at something behind the camera. Despite the black eye and bruising painted across his cheeks, Tony DiNozzo still wears that defiant, cheeky grin. His cracked lips move, but there's no sound on the television.

Gibbs' blood runs cold. His breath dies in his throat.

_If that's DiNozzo, where the hell are Bishop and McGee?_

The power cuts out, plunging the room into darkness. Gibbs rushes over to the monitor, pounds on it as though it could bring Tony back.

As though it could bring them all back.


	6. Chapter 6

**6:59pm – Unknown Place – Concurrent with Jethro Gibbs' Rendezvous behind Jimmy Foo's Excellent Chinese Food –**

With his head resting against his chest, Tony pulls a shuddering breath. Unconsciousness reaches after him again, trying to lure him away into her soft and healing embrace. Whisk him away from the agony and anguish that is his body, extinguish the fire in his wounds from Mishnev's blade.

But if he goes now, Tim or Ellie will be next.

Neither of them deserve to be subjected to this, to be asked the same question Mishnev repeats like a mantra. Tony's heard it so many times, he knows where the inflections of Mishnev's accent fall and the way he drags 'NCIS' out into that nasty hiss.

He screws his eyes shut tighter.

He won't make the mistake of looking at himself again. The constant drip of blood from his chest, his head, his arms, - everywhere, just everywhere - is enough to tell him that he's a wreck. Nothing magically healed itself in the short break Mishnev granted him.

"You grow tired, Agent DiNozzo?" Mishnev asks, a smile in his voice.

"I-I-I…" Tony struggles to raise his head "…am fine."

Nodding unconvinced, Mishnev slides his scalpel along his hostage's shoulder. The ice thawed on the tiny blade, set ablaze by Tony's body heat. Now, it burns.

"Perhaps you are ready to answer me then?" The edge nips through his skin, just deep enough to hurt. "How do I get into the NCIS building?

"Well, I drive through the front gate, flash my badge, and oh yeah." He makes a face, clicks his tongue. "You don't have one. That could be a problem."

Leaning into Tony's face, Mishnev bares his teeth. "You think this is humorous? Like a movie?"

The agent glances around the warehouse to take in his grisly surroundings. "You know, it does, but it isn't a very funny one." He squints at Mishnev, his eyebrows jumping. "Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Laurence Olivier?"

Mishnev blinks, clearly confused. "Who is that?"

"Come on, Sergei, I don't believe you never saw _Marathon Man._ " Tony's eyes wander around the warehouse. "So this little slice of paradise is all a coincidence? Wow, that's surprising. With that question you keep repeating and all those toys." He waves his fingers at the instrument tray. "I would've thought you were channeling Szell?"

Mishnev stands up. "Szell? I do not understand."

 _"Marathon Man,_ come on." Tony huffs like no one ever understands him. "Post-World War Two classic from 1976. Old Nazis abduct Dustin Hoffman and torture him in a warehouse. Laurence Olivier – " he jerks his chin at Mishnev " – is an old dentist and he does a root canal on Dustin Hoffman while asking a question over and over again that he doesn't know the answer to."

With his hands on his hips, Mishnev tilts his head. The gears in his brain clearly work overtime while Tony fights to keep the smile from his face. From their position several feet away, the henchman turn to find out what made their boss so quiet.

"So you have no idea how to get into the building?"

Tony shakes his head. "Not without a badge, no."

"That I do not believe."

When he shrugs, Mishnev drives his blade into Tony's shoulder again. The agent squeezes his lips shut, pulls a gasping breath through his nose. One twist and his vision blurs, nearly going black. He glances up to hold Mishnev's eyes. Anything to stay awake and in the moment.

"You will tell me now."

Tony crows in a shaky, German accent, "Is it safe?"

The backhand whips his head sideways, almost tipping the chair. But he manages to keep it upright. With his head hanging, his breaths coming in shuddered gasps.

Working his jaw, he looks up at his captor. "Did anyone ever tell you that you hit like a girl?"

The grin slithering over Mishnev's face drops Tony's heart into his stomach. "Yes, but he is dead."

"That's too bad. Maybe we'd have gone out to dinner to compare notes." He blinks, desperate to chase those huge black spots out of his vision. "Do you do that, Sergei?"

Mishnev's brow furrows. "Do what?"

"Use all the same moves on your…" Tony searches for the right word, "…guests."

Instead of a backhand, Tony earns a right hook to the face this time. He rolls his tongue around his mouth, cringing at the loose molar. But to keep up appearances, he hawks a blood-laced loogie on the plastic tarp. Cracking his neck, he shrugs.

"That one was better." He grins. "But you still hit like a girl."

"Perhaps you would be a little more receptive, if I asked Agent McGee" - Tony's eyes widen - "or Agent Bishop to join us."

Pressing his lips together, Tony stares back out at the Potomac. Or at least, in the direction of the river. After the daylight faded too much to torture him, Mishnev's henchmen dragged in these flood lights like the team uses at their crime scenes. He slams his eyes shut, pictures the heavy snowfall being swallowed by the river's rolling current.

He tries to channel nature's relentless energy into his ruined body, tries to fight his decaying resolve to stay awake. And alive.

The need to protect his team, regardless of the costs, wins out over self-preservation.

Opening his eyes, he shoots Mishnev a wicked smile. "Done already, Sergei? You gave up much easier than your brother ever did."

Mishnev's fist slams across his face, flinging Tony sideways, but he jerks his body to stay upright. Black spots pool in his vision, swarming together into one big, nasty abyss. He needs to stay awake, stay here in the moment. When he lifts his head, two Mishnevs glare back with deadly grins. Their blades glow under the lights, hungry and ravenous.

_So this is what Ducky looks like to those bodies we bring back. No wonder he likes to tell them stories to make them comfortable. I bet he'd even have one for this situation._

Mishnev drives his weapon into Tony's gut before he steels himself and -

_I think it's time for a Ducky story._

– he gasps involuntarily. Mishnev grins.

_Once upon a time, there was a guy named John McClane. Despite all sorts of crazy shit, he took out a group of bad-ass Russians all alone and lived happily ever after._

"You will not speak ill of the dead," Mishnev growls.

Tony genuinely nods. "Nothing bad about the asshole who killed my teammate, got it."

Mishnev plunges his blade into Tony's shoulder again, twisting until the agent cries out.

Mishnev starts, "Do not call my…" but the henchmen's snickering interrupts him.

His eyes immediately target on the group loitering by the wall. They're in a tight cluster, obviously discussing something as they watch the torture session.

When Mishnev barks at them, the three freeze. Baldy and Ugly find the floor intensely interesting while Handsome chooses a spot on the wall, desperately trying to school the grin from his face. Mishnev chucks his scalpel at them, but it goes wide.

They stare back, dumbfounded, until Mishnev growls something else.

_Oh shit, it sounded like he said McGee in there._

The trio leap into action, disappearing out of Tony's line of sight. When a door slams, he thinks they might've gone back into the hallway maze from earlier. He bucks against the zip-ties, trying for a better view. The shriek of his chair against the concrete rips through him, shredding his already destroyed nerves.

His head dips to his chest. His labored breath turning into shallow gasps.

So this is it.

In his fifteen years as an agent, he only lost one coworker to violence. Kate.

He still remembers the look in her eyes when the bullet ripped through her head. He can still feel the pink mist from the sniper's shot on his face sometimes. No matter how many times he scrubbed his cheeks, they just never felt clean. And some days, it's still there. Tacky and sticky, like it's a part of him. Reminding him to be a better agent and to look out for his team.

He can't let that happen again.

Not to the man he spent twelve years grooming into an effective, capable agent. Not to his friend.

Not to Tim.

But what can he really do here? In this freezing, dilapidated warehouse which is only G-d knows where. Tony's pretty sure Mishnev plans to murder the three of them here, then chuck their bodies into the Potomac. And nothing Tony does will stop him.

He couldn't even protect the team back at the house? How is he supposed to stop Mishnev when he's tried to a chair and beaten within an inch of his life?

_I won't lose another teammate, even if it kills me._

_And this time, it just might._

Mishnev chuckles. "So much for the challenge you promised me, Agent DiNozzo."

Tony jerks his head up, eyes searching for his captor. Mishnev looms by the flood light, terrifying and monstrous. His dark form becomes a sick and twisted shadow puppet. He removes his latex gloves and drops them to the floor. Then he dons a fresh pair for his next victim.

For Tim.

The gloves' snap steals Tony's breath away. His heart sinks as he pulls against the zip-ties that only chew his raw flesh. Grimacing, he tries again and again. But there's just no give.

Grinding his teeth, he glares at Mishnev. "Do you really think you've broken me?"

"I do not believe so, but you speak of my brother as though you do not comprehend my pain." Mishnev glides his fingers along the tray, seeming to take stock until he picks up a handgun. "I think it is time for you to understand."

Tony's eyes widen. "McGee isn't my brother."

Mishnev draws closer, transforming from monster to man. "Blood does not make you family, but your willingness to die for them does. Would you die for your team, Agent DiNozzo?"

"Yes."

"Good. Then we shall ask Agent McGee what he thinks of this."

Tony jumps in his chair. "You leave him out of this. It's between you and me."

"That is where you are wrong. This disagreement is between me and Gibbs."

Tony stills. "And us?"

Mishnev circles Tony's chair while he checks the clip in his gun. Tony strains his neck for a better view, but can't see the Russian. When the clip clicks back into place, Mishnev rests the gun against Tony's head. Body going rigid, the agent clenches his jaw.

"You are merely a pawn – " he moves the gun away " – to be sacrificed at the most opportune moment."

"No, no way. You made this personal when you abducted us."

Mishnev considers for a moment before he nods. "Then you tell me how to get into NCIS headquarters or I kill Agent McGee."

It's a deal with the devil, damned if you do and damned if you don't. To give a madman details about how to infiltrate his office or watch his friend die. For all Tony knows, Mishnev might plan to leave a bomb in the basement of the building.

But how is he supposed to sacrifice Tim?

Tony chokes on saliva or blood or who the hell knows anymore. Before he has a chance to respond, an approaching commotion grabs his attention. A loud thud echoes, followed by a yell. With his stomach rolling, Tony tries to move the chair around, but he doesn't have the energy anymore.

Moments later, he hears the door burst open.

"Where are we going? And where's DiNozzo?" Tim asks, fear thinly hidden in his voice.

Three sets of footsteps beat in a heavy staccato while a fourth scrapes across the concrete floor. There's another thud, and then curses explode like firecrackers, one in English and one in Russian.

Tony cranes his neck, desperate for a better view.

_Come on, Probie. Don't piss 'em off._

When Mishnev gives a dismissive wave, the goons dump Tim on the floor by Tony's feet. The junior agent pushes to his knees and the sight makes Tony cringe. His left eye is swollen shut, that side of his face bloated like a corpse left out in the sun too long. His hair sticks out haphazardly, matted and caked with blood. His arms are bound behind him, but he fights to free them.

Tim's good eye goes wide. "Tony?"

"In the flesh." He tries to grin, but it comes off a grimace. "You okay, Tim?"

Tim blinks as though the thought never occurred to him. "Fine, I'm fine. But Tony, you're – "

"Dustin Hoffman's stunt double in _Marathon Man._ Believe me, I know." When Tim sets his jaw, Tony moves on. "How's Bishop?"

"Alive and – " he smiles slightly, " – very, very pissed off.'

Tony groans. "Just like the rest of us."

Hazarding a clipped nod, the junior agent looks back at the henchmen. Tony follows his gaze, finally noticing the new bruising spattered across Baldy's face and the way Handsome inspects his left hand. So all those hours in the gym after work actually paid off for Tim and Ellie.

Pride swells in Tony's chest, but he doesn't have a chance to tell Tim.

Mishnev steps forward. "Now that you have spoken, have you considered the offer?"

"Offer?" Tim asks, glancing up. "What offer?"

Tony closes his eyes, unable to look at his friend anymore. The phrases 'go to hell' and the 'easiest way into NCIS' rise to his tongue at the same time. They battle for the right to be spoken first as his brain tries to decide who he should save: Tim or the agency.

But no one deserves to play G-d, least of all him.

"Hey," he asks, "is it safe?"

All he has to fall back on in this moment of life and death is movie quotes. As though the tag line from _Marathon Man_ will bring them both salvation. Or let someone else make the choice for him.

And Mishnev does so, calmly aiming his gun at Tim's head. The junior agent slams his good eye shut and screws his lips into a tight line.

"That is not how I expected you to react, Agent DiNozzo. I believed you valued Agent McGee more than this," Mishnev says. "Are you sure you will not tell me how to enter the building?"

Tony's heart races as he keeps his eyes fixed on Tim's face. For all their years together, he's never seen such raw, palpable fear. Not a single muscle on Tim's body moves as though that might be him begging for a bullet. Tony thinks the younger man stopped breathing.

He takes a breath for both of them.

"Tony," Tim murmurs, "don't tell them."

When Mishnev jams his gun against Tim's temple, the junior agent stiffens.

"Last chance, Agent DiNozzo."

Pressing his lips together, Tony drags his gaze off the sight. Birds huddle in the rafters high overhead, probably too stupid to fly south for the winter. Now, they struggle to find warmth in this terrible place. Maybe one day, they'll understand why they stayed. Maybe one day, Tim will understand the choice Tony's about to make.

_Maybe you'll even forgive me one day._

"Agent DiNozzo, I grow impatient."

In that moment, he notices the lick of something – entertainment? thrill? – in Mischnev's eyes.

Tony nods. "The garage is the easiest way in. You just have to – "

"Tony!" Mishnev kicks Tim in the stomach, but he still manages a breathless, doubled over: "Please…"

The senior agent flinches, fighting the rising rage in his throat. "You just have to slip past the guard when he takes his smoke break. Then sneak through the basement to the service elevator. Happy now?"

Mishnev grins like he just figured out Tony's weakness. "Quite."

When he pulls the gun away from Tim's head, the younger man slumps against the floor. His breath comes in shaking gasps as he lies there. While Mishnev rounds up his henchmen, he leaves Handsome to keep a watchful eye – and ready rifle – on his hostages.

But Tim doesn't even notice as he glares up at Tony.

"Why did you tell him?" The accusation in his voice matches the shock and anger in his eyes.

With a grin, Tony gestures towards their captor. "What do you think, man? Was it a good idea to save my partner?"

Momentary panic slides over Handsome's face, but he nods, playing along. Then he shoots Tony a thumbs up and a big grin.

_Oh thank G-d, this one doesn't speak English. Now McGee and I can come up with a plan._

But Tim still isn't paying attention as he presses: "Why would you do that, Tony?"

"To save your and Bishop's asses."

Tim's face pinches. "But you didn't have to. I was ready to… I would've – "

"You would've what, McGee?"

Flinching, he glances out at the warehouse.

"Do you really think I'd let you die on my watch? You and I both know Gibbs would kill us. Well, namely me since you'd already be dead." Tony pauses at the hitch in Tim's shoulders. "Sergei already knows how to get into NCIS. He probably has someone inside. You would've sacrificed yourself for nothing."

Tim looks back, good eye wide. "Tell me that's a joke, Tony. Please tell me – "

"He's screwing with us, McGee. Just like he's been screwing with Gibbs."


	7. Chapter 7

**7:12pm – Autopsy – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –**

She is so quiet, so serene. Like she's in the middle of a beautiful dream she can't bear to leave.

For the woman who could make Jethro Gibbs and Tobias Fornell sweat, the peaceful expression on her face is completely unnatural. Just like that hole in her forehead.

Gripping the freezer door, Jimmy Palmer wonders what she was like in life.

He only met Diane Fornell – or was it Gibbs? or Sterling? or something else entirely? – once. When he stopped by the bullpen to drop off an autopsy report. There, he witnessed an incident where she managed to emasculate Gibbs and Fornell with one well-placed phrase. That moment, he knew she was spectacular.

His suspicions were confirmed only after her death as he pieced together parts of her life from the MCRT's and Fornell's stories. She was a mother, a confidant, a friend.

A living, breathing person. Until a bullet cut everything short.

It's just like Dr. Mallard says: Try not to focus on who they were. Focus on who they are now.

In death, she is like all the others: pale, cold and a lifetime of habits told through her organs. Clean arteries and veins meant she was a vegetarian, but the black soot coating her lungs indicated she loved her cigarettes. At least a pack a day for years. He could tell she liked spa treatments and Botox and that was a bottle blonde. A walking contradiction, just like everyone before her.

But to Jimmy, Diane's death still feels different.

He rarely knows about the person attached to the body. He manages to maintain a professional distance. Focusing only on stories told by their organs and their tissue, rather than their loved ones.

But he knew Diane. He might even have been friends with her if given the chance.

He has lost friends before. Real ones. He has hovered over them on the autopsy table, watched Dr. Mallard drop is scalpel into their flesh, and closed up the doctor's incisions. But this is the first one to die since Breena got pregnant. To think his unborn child will one day lie on a cold, uninviting slab just like this turns his stomach.

The cycle of life is easy to think about when you're moving through it, not considering how it will end.

"I wish I'd gotten to know you, Mrs. Fornell. Er, Sterling." He doesn't want to check her toe tag. "Diane. I wish I'd gotten to know you, Diane."

Maybe you could've taught me how to face Agent Gibbs.

"Agent Fornell's going to come for you tomorrow."

At least, Jimmy hopes.

Fornell was supposed to come today, but from what he heard, the agent couldn't make it inside the building. That's better than yesterday where he sat in the parking lot until Gibbs took him home. Maybe tomorrow will be Diane's lucky day. Perhaps then, he'll finally take her home

Jimmy slides the drawer closed. As the freezer swallows her, he wonders whether he should recant a story. Something long and intellectually inspired like Dr. Mallard always does. He read a book about Romans last week and he's working through one about the Tudors right now. But none of it seems right.

So instead, Jimmy gives her one last look.

"Good night, Diane. I hope you know how much Agent Fornell misses you." His lips pull into a sad smile. "Agent Gibbs, too. But don't worry, he'll get that guy who shot you. Just like he did for Kate."

Once the drawer locks in the place, Jimmy closes the door. Its echo cuts fills him with a sense of finality like he's never experience before. He rests his hand against the frigid metal and pulls a deep breath.

Now, he needs to go home to his loving, pregnant wife. He'll concede to her weird cravings – this week, it's peanut butter with vanilla ice cream and olives– and rub her swollen ankles like everything's fine. He'll pretend like they'll never end up here, like their baby girl will never end up here.

When he hears the doors whoosh open, he jerks his head up.

"I know you told me to go home an hour ago, Doctor. I'm just waiting for Breena to tell me what she wants for dinner, but I think I'll go now."

He turns to leave, but a hulking man stands where Dr. Mallard should. Nearly a half foot taller than Jimmy and double his weight, the man is more menacing than the gun.

Jimmy raises his hands, backpedals into the autopsy freezer.

"I don't have any money," he says.

The man cocks a cruel smile. "I come for you and the doctor."

Jimmy's heart plummets into the floor as his knees turn to jelly. He struggles to inhale, but it's like his lungs don't want the air. Spots pop up in his vision like fireworks, blurring the man and his gun into a shapeless, faceless monster.

I'm never going to meet my little girl.

"Who are you?" Jimmy asks, voice wavering.

But instead of answering, the man crumples to the floor in a heap. His gun slams into the floor, skittering until it hits Jimmy's sneaker. Without even thinking, he kicks it clear across autopsy. It vanishes under one of the tables with a metallic plink.

When a looming figure checks on the unconscious man, Jimmy shrinks against the freezer. As he catches his breath, Dr. Mallard comes into full view. Holding a metal basin over his head, he looks like an ax murderer.

What the hell?

Dr. Mallard yells something, but Jimmy can't make out a word over his thudding pulse and aching head. He inhales carefully, his brain struggling to catch up with the situation.

Someone broke into autopsy to kill them.

Now, Dr. Mallard wants him to…well, he has no idea.

"Don't just stand there, Mr. Palmer! Retrieve those handcuffs from your desk!"

Jimmy's eyes go wide, his cheeks flush. "I don't have...doctor, how did you – "

"Just go, Mr. Palmer!"


	8. Chapter 8

**7:38pm – Autopsy – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC** –

The biohazard lights bathe autopsy in an overpowering, blood-red glow. Sirens scream at a decibel level only slightly below earth-shattering. None of it helps the pound in Jimmy's head, nor the panic lodged in his throat. For the first time ever, he's scared to be in the place that is his second home.

Scratch that, he's terrified.

"Mr. Palmer! Get a move on!"

Sighing, Jimmy yanks on his biohazard suit like Dr. Mallard requested. Then he picks up the hood, switches on the respirator, and slides it on. Once everything is sealed, he takes an ungainly step towards where Dr. Mallard guards their prisoner. As he wades through autopsy, he feels oddly like a little kid playing astronaut in his mother's jacket with a trashcan on his head.

_One small step for me, one giant leap for autopsy assistants everywhere._

Why Dr. Mallard decided they should interrogate the intruder themselves is beyond him. They should've called security as soon as the man hit the floor. In fact, Jimmy would have, if Dr. Mallard hadn't kept yelling for those darn handcuffs. Blind terror sent him scurrying back to Dr. Mallard with the cuffs. He only remembered the phone call when Dr. Mallard cuffed the intruder to an autopsy slab.

When he stops by Dr. Mallard's side, Jimmy studies their prisoner for a moment.

Even unconscious on the sickening floor, the intruder is frightening. Huge muscles bulge against the confines of his leather jacket. Tiny scars and pock-marks mar his otherwise plain face. His head is closely shaved in what resembles a military haircut.

Jimmy swallows hard, the click of his respirator increasing rapidly.

"Calm down, Mr. Palmer."

He gives a nod, but the hood doesn't move. So he hopes the doctor knows his response because Jimmy doesn't trust his tongue to work right now. That Dr. Mallard remains so uncharacteristically quiet doesn't help either. He heard the stories by Dr. Mallard's own admission about his time at a torture camp in Vietnam, but Jimmy never believed the level of detachment the doctor could exhibit until this moment.

They remain side-by-side and still for a long time, looming over the intruder. Mercifully, the respirator manages to drown out most of the siren. Jimmy finally relaxes. Ever so slightly.

When the intruder doesn't wake, Jimmy shoots Dr. Mallard a side-long glance. "He said he was here for us, doctor. Why would someone come after us?"

Dr. Mallard sighs. "I fear it may be related to the abduction of Agent Gibbs' team. This man likely works for Sergei Mishnev."

"Agent Gibbs' team is missing?"

"Regrettably, yes."

Jimmy's mouth gapes. "Why didn't you tell me, doctor?"

"Because you have enough on your mind, my boy, with the baby coming any day now. It wasn't like we could do anything about it." He sighs, long and low. "Until now."

"But I work with them every day. Don't I deserve to know what's going on?" When Dr. Mallard doesn't reply, he adds: "This guy came here to kill us, didn't he?"

The doctor's hood rustles and for all Jimmy knows, he might be shaking his head or nodding. "Jethro requested we keep this as quiet as possible. Especially since no one knows he's searching for them too."

Jimmy's chest tightens. "What about the director?'

"Officially, no." There's a long pause. "Unofficially, yes."

When Jimmy glances over, the low light obscures Dr. Mallard's face. "Where's Agent Gibbs now, doctor?"

"That I don't know, Mr. Palmer."

"Does he know where they are?'

The silence gives Jimmy his answer, making his stomach do somersaults. Now, he understands why Dr. Mallard hesitated to call security. The only lead to recovering Gibbs' team might be at their feet. But what can they – a medical examiner and his tightly wound assistant – do that a building full of agents can't?

_I doubt this guy would crack in a jail cell, let alone here._

"What do we do?"

Dr. Mallard shrugs. "We wait until our guest wakes."

By the time that happens, the biohazard alarm should have alerted half the building to a potential pathogen. It's surprising no one has come down to check on them yet. The response time is supposed to be three minutes or less. Jimmy glances towards the clock: over ten.

It shouldn't take this long unless….someone disabled the alarm.

Chest tightening, Jimmy looks over at Dr. Mallard, but his face is still hidden by the plastic shield. When the doctor crouches to check on the intruder, a chill slips down Jimmy's spine.

_What else don't I know about him?_

One hard shake from Dr. Mallard rouses the intruder, making him lurch forward against the handcuffs. Blinking as though he has no idea where he is, he mutters something unintelligible. When he notices Dr. Mallard and Jimmy, he jerks backwards violently like they're aliens, here to harvest his precious organs.

He works his hands behind his back, murmuring what might be a prayer.

"Be careful, young man," Dr. Mallard advises, "you might injure yourself."

"English?" he slurs, voice heavily accented with his Russian homeland.

"Scottish, actually."

The intruder stiffens, his fear vanishing. "It does not matter. You both still will die, even if you kill me."

"Oh dear, you think we plan to kill you?" Dr. Mallard pauses enough for the intruder's brow to furrow. "Oh quite the contrary. We did this to save you, lad."

"Save me?" He repeats the word as though he can't comprehend why.

"To keep you alive," Jimmy offers.

When the intruder's soulless eyes land on him, he takes a full step backwards. Cold sweat breaks out across his forehead, trickling down his back and drenching his scrubs. Even though the air inside the suit is hot and suffocating, he can't get warm. Out of self-perseveration, he decides Dr. Mallard should do the talking.

But they stand in silence, waiting for the intruder to wake up further. Eventually, he lifts his head and tilts his chin towards the emergency lights.

"What is that noise?" he asks.

"It's the warning system for an airborne biological pathogen." When the intruder's face goes blank, Dr. Mallard tries again. "It tells everyone outside to keep their distance due to the infectious agent in the air." The lack of response makes the doctor sigh like no one ever listens. "It's…it is…"

When the intruder looks at Jimmy again, he blurts out: "Pneumothorax!"

Thankfully, the hood hides his cringe from the other men.

Why the hell did he choose to blurt out the clinical name for collapsed lung? Maybe it's because he just finished the paperwork for their most recent guest. Or perhaps because he just browsed through his old medical school textbooks last week.

He swallows hard, feeling the doctor's angry glare cut through the four layers of Tyvek.

But when the intruder's cheeks go as white as a corpse, Jimmy believes he made a decent choice.

"I have to go to hospital, now," the intruder whispers.

"All in due time, lad. It seems as though someone sent something suspicious to the White House at the same time as our problem. So the biological containment unit will be over when they're done." Dr. Mallard nods, holds his arms out. "But we just need to sit tight until then."

When Dr. Mallard explains the impressive impenetrability of his suit, a sheen rises to the top of the intruder's head. His breathing hitches as the feigned confusion melts from his eyes, replaced by fear.

"I have no suit," he says.

"Oh dear." Dr. Mallard lets out a hiss, but it might just be the respirator. "Mr. Palmer, what was the estimated arrival time of the CDC?"

Pressing his lips together, Jimmy makes a show of checking the clock across autopsy. He has no idea how he's supposed to answer because this wasn't what he and Dr. Mallard discussed. They were supposed to use a pretend Sarin gas exposure, not imaginary pneumothorax and biological containment units.

He shrugs. "Twelve hours, give or take."

"Because we'll safe in our suits for that amount of time. You, on the other hand…"

The intruder jerks against the cuffs. "You can call them back, yes? We should not wait."

"Yeah, you're right. We shouldn't wait."

When Jimmy starts towards the office, Dr. Mallard holds him back. The intruder glances up at them, his face pale and sweat covered. If he hadn't come to kill them, Jimmy might actually pity the man.

"You call." The intruder jerks against the cuffs as he adds a pathetic, "Please."

Dr. Mallard's hood rustles again, probably from him shaking his head. "Not yet, lad. I'll grant you that favor if you tell me something."

The intruder recoils, shocked. "What do you want?"

"Who sent you?"

He doesn't even hesitate. "Sergei Mishnev."

Dr. Mallard steps closer. "And Gibbs' team. Where are they?"

Shuddering, he glances away. "That I cannot tell you."

"Then I suggest you make the best of your accommodations, lad. It will be a long time before the CDC arrives. Do you know the incubation time for – " he huffs " – pneumothorax?"

Putting on a brave face, he shakes his head. "N-n-no."

"In some cases, as quickly as four hours. Once the symptoms start, survival rates plummet." Dr. Mallard pauses long enough to let the intruder swallow hard. "By the time the CDC arrives, you might already be dead. Now, tell me where Agent Gibbs' team is and Mr. Palmer will contact them again."

"You are supposed to help. You are a doctor."

"Perhaps, but my patients are the dead."

The very words send a chill down Jimmy's spine. When the intruder leans back and screws his face with disgust, Jimmy thinks their plan might be working. Then he spits at Dr. Mallard's face shield. But he doesn't bother to chase it away; he just holds his ground. While they continue their staring contest, Jimmy tries to think of something that could help.

Eventually, he taps Dr. Mallard's arm. "Excuse me, doctor, but do you think we should show him the body of the last pneumothorax victim?"

"I think it would be quite macabre, Mr. Palmer. Even for this instance." There's genuine concern in the doctor's voice.

"But doctor," Jimmy says, dropping his voice into a stage whisper, "doesn't he deserve to see what the sores will look like? What his body will end up like without treatment?"

The intruder disguises his flinch by pretending to crack his neck. Out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy watches the intruder works at the cuffs. The sweat cascades down his face as he twists his body to see towards the front door, probably planning an escape route.

Dr. Mallard sighs, defeated. "As you wish, Mr. Palmer."

When Jimmy moves towards the freezer, the intruder bucks against his cuffs. "Wait!"

"What is it?"

"How long since I got the pneumo?"

"Three hours," Dr. Mallard says solemnly. "You have to decide. Survival rates plummet as soon as the eschar begins to appear."

Jimmy tilts his head. "Doctor, shouldn't we mention the mark on his face?"

The intruder flinches again. "My face? What is on my face?"

Looking away, Jimmy just shakes his head. So Dr. Mallard takes over: "I'm sorry, but the eschar is already appearing on your cheek, lad. You have been infected."

Grinding his teeth, the intruder growls at them. His wild eyes flick between Jimmy and Dr. Mallard, the gaze of a feral animal, cornered and dying and concerned with only one thing: his survival.

"If I tell you, you call? You will save me?" he asks, his tone plaintive.

Dr. Mallard nods. "You have my word. Now, tell me where Agent Gibbs' team is."

When humanity washes over the intruder again, he nods carefully. "There is a warehouse in Southwest, an old import company called Alden. It is on the river. I saw them. There were two men and a woman."

"Are they alive?"

"When I saw them, yes."

After a curt nod, Dr. Mallard begins to remove his hood. When Jimmy follows his lead, the intruder's face pales even further under the back-up lights. Both Jimmy and Dr. Mallard slide the top part of their suits off, letting the arms hang free at their waists.

Free from the recycled air and his own stench, Jimmy takes a deep breath of the cool air. He never thought he'd be happy to smell disinfectant and putrefaction, the sweet aroma of death.

"The pneumo!" the intruder yelps. "You will die too!"

"I think we'll all be just fine, lad. Mr. Palmer will keep an eye on you while I contact security," Dr. Mallard says, passing Jimmy the metal basin from earlier.

"Y-y-yes, doctor."

When Dr. Mallard heads into their office, Jimmy clutches the organ basin so tightly his fingers grow numb. The intruder remains inert, but his hands actively work at the cuffs behind him. Even though there's no way out – and Jimmy knows from way too much personal experience - the man still tries.

With his heart thudding in his chest, Jimmy watches the intruder intently.

It feels like any minute, any second now, the man will launch himself to wrap his hands around Jimmy's throat. He can feel the air being forced from his windpipe, feels the thumb breaking his hyoid bone, crushing the life out of him. He swallows hard, keenly aware of every muscle that makes it happen.

Adrenaline pumps through his arteries, egging on his raw panic.

When the intruder shifts forward, Jimmy smashes his basin against the man's face. The sickening crunch reverberates through autopsy, bouncing off the walls and the freezers back into Jimmy's own skull. His stomach twists in knots like they might rip him in two.

He steps back, horrified, as the intruder slumps to the floor.


	9. Chapter 9

**8:12pm – Former Location of Alden Import and Export Company – 142 Q St. SW, Southwest, Washington, DC –**

Even though their time passes uneventfully, Tim is edgy. Every drip of water, every creak of decaying metal in the warehouse makes him flinch and raise his guard. Like there's really anything he could do to save them when Mishnev decides its time. The mournful and far-off moan of a foghorn sends Tim's heart skipping into his throat.

He slides backwards until his fingers graze Tony's shins to remind himself that his partner's still here.

Still alive.

Tim doesn't have to look at him to know how dire the situation is. Right after he told Mishnev how to get into NCIS, his head lolled to his chest, but he didn't lift it again. His breaths grow shorter and more labored with every passing moment, to the point where he sounds like there might not be a next one.

Tim tries to appear nonchalant, tries to pretend that he couldn't give a damn whether Tony lives. Anything to avoid giving Mishnev and his goons more leverage.

_I know it probably won't work, but it's worth a shot._

Tim keeps his eyes fixed on his captors, searching for an opening. His head pounds, a constant reminder of his spent adrenaline levels. Pins and needles prick through his legs from sitting cross-legged on the freezing concrete for way too long.

When he shifts to a more comfortable position, Handsome snaps his rifle up. Tim shakes his head and moves even closer to Tony. Seemingly satisfied, Handsome resumes his original activity of staring into space. Several feet away, Ugly copies the action. Both of them are stock-still like menacing toy soldiers.

This moment feels so familiar, like a dream Tim had once. The details are hazy at best, fleeting and forgotten. Tony tied to a chair and tortured, with himself on the floor and their other teammate missing.

But the last time they were taken prisoner by a madman, the sun had been blinding bright and the air so hot and dusty they'd nearly suffocated. Dread burns through him like wildfire when he remembers how they knew Gibbs would be hot on their trail when they left for Somalia. Their boss was always one step behind Tony's half-baked rescue plot, following the breadcrumbs they carefully left behind.

But now? How the hell will Gibbs find them?

Something bumps Tim's back and he nearly jumps out of his skin.

"Easy, McGee," Tony rasps, "easy."

"Tony? You're awake?'

"Yeah, been the whole time." Like Tim would believe that lie. "Got a plan, yet?"

_Oh yeah, just wait for Gibbs to get a rowboat and snipe Mishnev like he did Saleem in Somalia._

Tim shakes his head. "Not yet. You?"

"Still working on it."

Then Tony's breathing evens out again. For a moment, Tim doesn't know whether the senior agent actually woke up or if the stress is making him hallucinate.

Tony's knee taps Tim's back again, telling him to hold on. Pressing his lips together, Tim tries to listen to his friend's advice.

He watches their captors. Neither Handsome nor Ugly have moved, and who knows where Baldy ended up after he went for a perimeter check. Mishnev paces by the flood light, playing on his phone. When he finally flips it closed, tension rolls through Tim like a tsunami.

As their captor draws closer, he drags an empty chair with him until its mere inches from Tim's knees.

Swallowing hard, Tim starts to his feet. If they're going to torture him, he's going on his own terms. Sit in that chair of his own volition so like he made the choice. He needs to face whatever these monsters plan for him like Tony did. Unwaveringly and bravely like Gibbs trained them.

But Mishnev punches Tim in the gut, dropping the agent to his knees. Another fist to the face sends him sprawling on the floor. He lies still and stunned, too afraid to move. Like any motion might scare away the last traces of consciousness, chase off any chance at fighting back.

"Bring Agent Bishop," Mishnev growls.

Neither of his goons move until he snaps something in Russian. Those words send Handsome bolting – tripping - out of the room after Ellie.

When his heart jumps into overdrive, Tim inhales sharply.

"Don't worry, McGee," Tony rasps, "Gibbs has our six."

For the first time in years, Tim doesn't share Tony's blind faith in Gibbs. This situation is so different from Somalia, so different from anything they've ever experience before. Yes, they've already been held hostage by a madman, but never one hell bent on revenge. Tim has investigated far too many murders motivated by revenge to know they won't survive this.

He just wants to live.

"Always has, always will," Tony rambles.

Where would Gibbs set up his sniper's perch? Surely, their boss wouldn't have the forethought to commandeer a rowboat. For a fleeting moment, Tim wonders whether Gibbs could nail a headshot in the dark from the middle of the Potomac…during a snowstorm.

He closes his eyes, wishing it were so.

_Sometimes I think we forget Gibbs is human too._

"He is coming," Tony says. "Just breathe, McGee."

Tim inhales deeply. "I hope you're right."

"I always am, you know that." When Tim glances over his shoulder, his superior stares at him with a surprising intensity. "Never leave a man behind, right? You really think Gibbs is going to tackle all that computer stuff without you?"

"You're right," he says, but he doesn't mean it.

"Come on, McGee. You can do better than that." Tony pulls out his Christopher Walken impression, the one that never fails to make Tim chuckle. "Once more with feeling, McDoubtingThomas."

Tim genuinely laughs. "You're right, Tony."

That's the moment he hears them. Footsteps. But it isn't the sound of Handsome bringing Ellie, their fighting and his screams growing louder as they approach. This set is a steady thud just beyond the flood lights, the sound of someone coming from the outside.

A familiar shadow looms against the brightness.

"Ah, Gibbs." Mishnev holds his hands out in greeting "You are far earlier than expected."

When the shapes comes closer, Tim notices Baldy holding a gun on Gibbs. How can the goon still be alive? And why isn't Gibbs armed too? Something must be wrong. Very, very wrong. Tim and Tony share a shocked glance that says, 'where the hell is the sniper rifle?'

Gibbs doesn't acknowledge their look. "McGee. DiNozzo. Are you two okay?"

"We're fine," they reply in unison.

Gibbs nods. "Where's Bishop?"

"She'll be joining us shortly," Mishnev answers.

He nods again. "As long as she's alive, I'm here to uphold my end of the bargain."

Tony perks up. "What bargain?"

"The one where he exchanges himself for his team," Mishnev explains. "But I'm afraid, Gibbs, that deal no longer stands. The new terms are your life for only two of your team."

Gibbs' face contorts with rage. "That wasn't the agreement. My team for me."

Mishnev simply shrugs. "The rules changed when you killed my man."


	10. Chapter 10

**9:01pm – Former Location of Alden Import and Export Company – 142 Q St. SW, Southwest, Washington, DC –**

Holding his breath, Tim watches Gibbs silently square off with Mishnev. Somehow, his boss managed to get close enough to their captor to be within striking distance, but far enough away to not get caught up in a fight. His muscles are tense and tight, ready to pounce at the slightest provocation.

Even though Baldy points a gun at him, Gibbs looks more annoyed than anything else. It's the same expression he wears when Tony forgets to collate his reports or Ellie takes to the floor to ponder their case. Or when Tim launches into a rambling of some technobabble that no one else understands.

Another feral shriek rips through the warehouse.

_Holy shit, what is Bishop doing to that guy?_

Gibbs' steady gaze shifts from Mishnev to his present team members. Whatever face Tony makes earns him a barely perceptible nod.

When Gibbs glances at Tim, his eyebrows jump and he presses his lips together.

Tim has no idea what that means, but nods anyway. Just bobs his head like he knows what the hell is going on. As soon as the fighting starts, he'll just aim for the closest goon and hope for the best.

_Hope for the best._

The words pinball around Tim's brain, slamming into synapses and awakening memories. They rekindle those distant, long-forgotten promises he's made to himself over the years. That next bestseller, hobbies, another dog, a wife and children. All those things he told himself he'd get to sometime in the future. Never now. Not because he didn't want to, but because he never had the time. He was always working, always solving some important case.

His life belongs to the job, not him.

He swallows hard, trying to dislodge the lump in his throat.

So he never learned from his father's death. How precious life is, and that it could be gone at any moment. He told himself it'd be different this time. That he'd be different this time. But he slipped back into his old ways far too quickly, never even told his team he was late to their crime scene because he came straight from the funeral luncheon.

If he makes it out alive, he'll do everything he put off. He'll beg Delilah to come home just like he always wanted to, but never had the courage. He'll do whatever it takes for them to be together. Even take a leave of absence and wander the streets of Dubai for a while.

Anything to be with her, anything to truly live.

Another shout – closer this time – drags Tim out of his thoughts.

_That dirtbag nearly has Bishop here._

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Tony's bruised and battered face. The swelling is exponentially worse than just a few minutes ago. For a moment, Tim forgets how much can be normal for someone who is still alive.

Something that could be mistaken for a smile pulls at Tony's bloated lips. "You ready, McGee?"

He half-nods. "As I'll ever be."

"Good." Tony inhales deliberately. "Don't go until Gibbs gives the signal."

Before Tim has a chance to ask about the signal, the door opens and Handsome drags Ellie out. His face is a mess. Bumps and bruises make him rival Ugly in the looks department. When he jerks her forward, he hobbles with a nasty limp. She rams her knee into his thigh, but he drags her towards the rest of the team.

Once she's close enough, Mishnev shoots the whole team a sidelong glance. "Have you decided whose life you are willing to exchange for my man's, Gibbs?"

Pressing his lips together, Gibbs shakes his head. "They all walk away, Sergei. That was the deal."

"If you are unwilling to choose, I will."

He gives a long pause, but Gibbs remains silent.

Mishnev's lips part to reveal a shark-like grin. "Who would you like to die with you today? Your right-hand man or – " his cold, dead stare glides from Tony to Tim – " or your computer specialist or – " then, he leers at Ellie " – your informational analyst. They are all worthy choices." He lets the silence linger before his grin widens. "Of both options."

Terror licks down Tim's spine as Gibbs' eyes wander over his team members. First to Ellie, then Tony, and finally, him. They stay there just a second too long and Mishnev catches it.

"So you do have a choice," he growls, grinning.

"No, I don't," Gibbs repeats. "I'm trading my life for theirs."

But Mishnev is too busy motioning to his goons with his free hand to pay attention.

Tim doesn't have a chance to think about what's going on as Ugly yanks him to his feet. As he's marched closer to the confrontation, he glances over his shoulder to meet Tony's wide – and for the first time ever – terrified eyes. Like he finally believes they might not all survive this encounter, like that blind faith he has in Gibbs might be crumbling.

Tim's own heart turns to ash.

Only Ugly's tight grip on his upper arm keeps him upright when they stop mere inches from Mishnev and Gibbs' showdown. Neither his boss nor his captor bother to look at him while they're locked in a standoff to see who will be the first to crack.

Whether Gibbs will beg for his man's life before Mishnev ends it.

"Boss?" Tim's voice is so quiet that even he barely hears it.

No one else dares speak a word, let alone breathe, as though it might influence the outcome. As though a single sound could make one of them break. The winds howl outside, slapping against the side of the warehouse and making Tim's heart twist into his throat.

Cold sweat soaks through his shirt as he tries to desperately figure out how this could be part of Gibbs' plan. How letting Mishnev gun them down in this dirty filthy place could actually fix anything.

Sacrifice, he's realizing, isn't everything it's cracked up to be.

The minutes pass like hours and Tim's gaze flicks between his captor and his boss. Both of them are as impassive and impenetrable as stone walls. But then Tim notices how Gibbs moves, almost imperceptibly closing the gap between himself and Mishnev.

Gibbs' eyebrows rise ever so slightly, imploring Tim to trust him. That they'll be just fine because he has a plan. It's got to be something so simple he doesn't even need a gun for it.

Whatever the hell it is, Tim just wishes he could read his boss' freaking mind. It would be a lot easier to accept if he knew what Gibbs was about to do like he knows Mishnev has a bullet ready for him.

Mishnev breaks the silence first. "So, Gibbs, you accept this choice? Agent McGee dies with you, yes?"

Tim's breath hitches. "Boss…"

"Me." Gibbs takes another step forward. "You take me and we're even."

When Mishnev loads a bullet into the chamber of his gun, Tim flinches like he's been shot.

Behind him, there's the screech of Tony's chair against the concrete. Probably searching for a better vantage point to see whether he could do anything to prevent this disaster.

Mishnev moves towards Tim, gun raised. "Your man for my – "

"I volunteer!" Tony yells.

There's a twitch to Mishnev's lips like he planned this all along. To watch the team jump at the chance to sacrifice themselves so he could murder them one by one in front of Gibbs.

"Is that so, Agent DiNozzo?" he asks.

Tony nods emphatically. "I'll take McGee's place. Let him go."

The ensuing silence is so overwhelming that Tim thinks he's gone deaf for a moment. Then there's a barely perceptible screaming in the distance.

Sirens.

Back-up is on its way, begging the team to hold on until they arrive. Based on the sound, they're minutes away and the team's already out of time. Swallowing hard, Tim decides that waiting for Gibbs' damned signal doesn't matter anymore.

His muscles tense when Mishnev shifts the gun towards Tony.

"McGee, Bishop, now!" Gibbs yells. "Tony, get down!"

Tim wrests his body sideways, smashing his forehead against Ugly's already crooked nose. Something crunches in the attack and Tim hopes to hell it's his target, not his skull. Both of them crash into the concrete, momentarily stunned. Then Tim rolls to his side and kicks Ugly squarely in the chest, even though the thug isn't moving anymore.

Tim lies there, lungs and bound arms burning, as the world around him dissolves into chaos.

A shriek explodes from across the room where Ellie goes for another round with Handsome.

Tony throws his chair sideways and he goes down hard, his head bouncing off the concrete. He shudders as his eyes fall closed. His body sags against the restraints as he finally succumbs to the hours of abuse. Mercifully, he's already out when Mishnev squeezes off a wild shot.

But Mishnev's aim follows him to the ground.

Just as he goes to pull the trigger again, Gibbs sucker-punches the Russian in the throat. The gun hits the ground with a metallic _plink_ before it skitters away into the blackness.

When Baldy finally catches up the action, he lunges for the back of Gibbs' neck. Tim leverages a solid kick to the goon's ankle. Cursing and groaning, Baldy drops to one-knee. When he sets his sights on Tim, the agent scrambles backwards. But before Baldy can reach Tim, Gibbs smashes his elbow against the goon's temple. He collapses to the floor, unmoving.

With the nearby henchmen neutralized, Gibbs scoops up a stray gun. One shot drops Handsome and earns him a thankful smile from Ellie.

Then Gibbs stalks towards Mishnev.

On his back, gasping and crowing for air, the Russian is no longer as menacing as he was earlier. He struggles for his back-up weapon with his shaking hand, but Gibbs kicks it away.

The sirens' shrieks fill the warehouse now, bouncing off the walls and ripping through Tim's spent nerves. They're so close it makes him hold his breath as he watches Gibbs intently.

_Don't do it, Boss. Help's almost here..._

Mishnev struggles to his knees, eyes burning. "Excellent work, Gibbs. I guess you won the game."

"Never was a game, Sergei. You killed my friend. You came after my team, my - " he checks on his agents " – family."

"Only because you murdered what was left of mine."

Gibbs sets his jaw, the rage deepening on his face.

"You deserved everything you have experienced." Mishnev lets out a rasping laugh like a dying man. "Especially, your ex-wife's. That was agony at its finest. I regret I won't be able to see your face while you watch your team die. Perhaps in another life, yes?"

Gibbs rests his gun against Mishnev's forehead. "Last words, Sergei?"

"I'll see you in hell, Gibbs."

He smirks. "Be sure of it."

Then he pulls the trigger and Mishnev's body drops like a stone.


	11. Chapter 11

**Thursday, January 15, 2015 - 12:51am - St. Boniface Medical Center Emergency Department – Washington, DC –**

Gibbs haunts the hallway outside his team's hospital room, too afraid to enter in case he might wake them, but too anxious to let them out of his sight again. Sighing, he leans against the door frame to watch them. Even though they're sleeping in the most uncomfortable positions imaginable, they look so peaceful.

Tony's propped up in the bed, his face a disconcerting mélange of butterfly sutures and jet-black bruises. Bandages hide so many stitches that Gibbs stopped counting after a hundred because he didn't want to – couldn't – know how many times Mishnev drove his blade into Tony.

The senior agent's slinged right arm is a testament not only to that, but to Tony's damn blind luck. Another inch to the left, the doctor said, and it would've nicked the nerve bundle and, possibly, the brachial artery. Then Tony would've lost, at best, the use of his shooting arm. And at worst, -

No, Gibbs can't bear to think about that.

The brain contusion is bad enough.

Scrubbing his hand across his chin, he forces his gaze on Ellie and Tim. Nothing more than bumps and bruises, their injuries look far worse than they really are. Just a couple of days of rest, the doctor promised, and things will heal quickly from there. Less than a week, and his agents'll be back to active duty.

Looking at them now, Gibbs doesn't know whether he believes it. The youngest members of his team look so battered and so damaged in the dim glare of the television that he thinks they might be broken.

Curled up in a chair, Ellie sleeps with her knees to her chest. Her right arm hangs free to accommodate the IV buried at the crook of her elbow. Her golden hair cascades over her face, hiding her black eye and the splotchy bruises across her cheeks.

Tim managed to spread out in his seat with his head propped up against the back of his chair. His feet just graze Tony's, like they still need to, even in sleep, remind each other of their presence. His twin black eyes glow an angry purple.

_So this is what my revenge almost cost me._

Licking his lips, Gibbs sinks deeper against the wall.

The bullet he put in Mishnev brought him everything he could have ever wanted, dredging up the memories of the hill where he sniped Shannon and Kelly's killer all over again.

But this time…this time was different. This time he experienced everything he expected to feel that day twenty years ago: closure, the ability to let his loved ones rest, a sense of finality. Peace.

But to see the consequences of his actions written across his team's faces brings another surge of guilt.

He almost lost them.

"I made a mistake today," he whispers.

"You're damn right."

Blinking, Gibbs turns to find the heavyset nurse from earlier next to him. She hides a mask of concern underneath her anger. "You escaped on my time, Agent Gibbs. I haven't had a jailbreak in fifteen years. But I guess – " she sneaks a peek into the agents' room " – it might've been worth it."

He nods. Hosting a jailbreak from the Emergency Department was certainly worth recovering his agents alive and well. Even being stuck in the ED under armed guard with this nurse might be worth it. But when she grips his arm, he debates about signing out AMA instead.

One of the leads from his EKG slips out from underneath his hospital gown and he tucks it back into his scrub pants. She clenches her jaw and rolls her eyes as though he's the worst patient ever.

_Just wait 'til DiNozzo wakes up, lady._

The nurse jerks her chin towards the empty room up the hall. "We should get you hooked back up, Agent Gibbs. The doctor wants to confirm that taser didn't injure your heart."

He gives his team one last, long look. "I don't think it did."

"Yeah, you might be right, but – " her broad smile chases away the anger as she drags him back to bed " - it's doctor's orders. And don't think I'm letting you out of my sight again."

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**3:23am - St. Boniface Medical Center Emergency Department – Washington, DC –**

"…almost died, Tony," Ellie whispers, her voice muffled and broken. The way she sounds is all messed up and wrong.

Tim stays still in his chair, pretending to be asleep. He assumes Ellie and Tony are having some sort of meaningful conversation, sharing secrets like they do sometimes. For all he knows, they've been at this for hours. Maybe he'll be lucky and fall asleep again.

"It happens sometimes, Bishop." Tony's tone is surprisingly serious. "Wait until it happens a few more times. Then you won't even notice it."

She laughs hollowly. "I won't want to get used to it. That was…"

"The most terrifying thing you've ever been through in your entire life?"

"Yeah, yeah." She sighs like everything's too much to bear. "The whole time I just kept thinking what would happen if I never got a chance to say goodbye to Jake. We had a huge fight before I left this morning." She sighs again. "And do you want to know the worst part?"

"What?"

"I don't even remember what we were fighting about. Could you imagine if that was his last memory of me?" She pauses for a long time. "That would be his last memory of us?"

"Then tell him that when you see him."

"Tell him what?"

"That you were about to die and all you could think about was him." It's Tony's turn to laugh. "Trust me, significant others eat that kind of stuff up."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah."

They grow quiet, leaving on the quiet beep of Tony's heart rate monitor to be their conversation. The strong and steady pulse fills the room, lulling Tim back to sleep. Just as he starts to drift away again, Ellie jerks her chair closer to the bed and the metal shrieks across the linoleum. Tim's body tenses.

"Shit, Bishop," Tony says, "that's not helping my headache."

"I don't want to wake up McGee."

Tim relaxes in his chair, tries to even out his breath. Adrenaline courses through his veins again, readying him for fight or flight. With the direction this conversation's taking, he'd prefer flight. Or maybe he'll just pretend to stay asleep.

_Yeah, that's a great plan._

"I'd be surprised if you didn't wake up everyone in the hospital, let alone McGoo." Both of them laugh quietly, obviously comfortable in their silence until Tony says: "Ellie, what is it? You keep looking at me like something's on your mind."

She emits a strangled cough. "How do you make it work, Tony?"

The heart rate monitor's beeping increases. "The easy answer is that I don't."

"What about Zoe?"

"Sometimes I don't know what she's still doing with me." He shifts in the bed, rustling his hospital gown. "I cancel on her all the time, fall asleep while we're on the phone every night. And that's if I even remember to call her. I should be asking you how to make it work."

She clears her throat. "It used to be so easy. College was cake and so was grad school. Then we got picked up by the NSA and it was perfect. A couple of beers after work while we discussed our active cases used to be our nightly wind-down. After I transferred to NCIS, we just stopped talking."

"You have to talk to each other."

"We do, but we don't really." She lets out a huff. "I don't know how else to explain it."

"You say words that don't mean anything," Tony says sagely. "Like going through motions."

"Yeah. How did you know?"

He snorts, but buries it in a low cough. "It happened to me once. It felt like I was sleepwalking for years. Then all of a sudden, it just got better."

"What'd you do?"

"I woke up," he says. "I learned the limits of the job and only then could I be honest with the person I really cared about. I can be open with Zoe and it works for now."

"I'm glad that men's support group is working for you," Ellie replies, a smile in her voice.

A long pause before he whispers: "How did you know about that?"

"McGee told me."

Even though Tim feels two sets of eyes bore into him, Tim just keeps pretending to be asleep. Maybe if he's lucky, he'll pass out again right now. He can't help but feel like, against his best intentions, he trespasses into this private conversation.

Tony's foot taps his, as though to say payback is imminent, but Tim still doesn't move.

"Did Dr. McPhil tell you about his relationship secrets, Bishop?" Tim grits his teeth, but stays still. "Long distance gives you the perks of a relationship, but without all the work. Plus, every time you're together, it feels like a vacation."

"So you're saying I should ship Jake off somewhere warm."

"Why stop there? Pick a place with a really good beach." There's a short pause. "Doesn't the NSA have a place in the Virgin Islands? Do you think he'd spend the day in the sun or actually working?"

She giggles. "It's a toss-up, but he would probably be at the beach all day."

Tim jerks his head up. "Hey, Delilah's actually working in Dubai. She isn't goofing - "

His voice dies in his throat when he notices the cat-ate-the-canary grins his teammates share. He played right into their trap. He leans back against the chair, lets his eyes roll towards the ceiling.

_Son of a bitch. I have to stop doing that._

"I knew you weren't asleep, McSleepingBeauty," Tony says.

"Yes, I was."

He shoots Tim a skeptical glance. "And you woke up just in time to defend the honor of your long distance girlfriend?'

Underneath the bruises, Tim's cheeks blaze. He waits just a second too long to say, "Yeah."

Both Tony and Ellie roll their eyes and laugh, but he decides not to add his two cents about their earlier conversation. Instead, he pushes higher in his seat and drops his feet to the ground. They feel like they weigh thousands of pounds as the pins and needles prick their way through them. He rubs his hands against his thighs, encouraging the blood flow to return.

"Has anybody seen Gibbs yet?" Tim asks.

"He came by earlier while you actually were asleep," Tony says.

Tim returns the snark with a scowl. Before he has a chance for a retort, there's a heavy knock on the door. All of them glance up to find Ellie's husband, Jake Malloy, in the doorway. His eyes are red-rimmed behind his glasses and his suit is rumpled, his tie loosened.

"I came as soon as I heard," he says. "I got stuck in a deposition and I missed your phone calls."

His cheeks go pale and he stares at Ellie as though she might be a ghost. She's on her feet and in his arms within seconds, taking the IV pole with her.

"I'm just so glad you're okay," he murmurs.

"I'm fine. Everything's fine." She glances over her shoulder at Tim and Tony. "These pretty awesome people at work have my six these days, while someone even more impressive – " she smiles up at Jake " – has it at home. All I wanted to do today was see you again."

He gapes at her as he shoves his glasses higher. Then he yanks Ellie into a hug so tight it seems impossible for them to break. As though he'll never be able to let her go. He closes his eyes and his face goes slack as he melts into her.

When he glances over at Tony, Tim's eyebrow rises. Pride is as much a part of the senior agent's face as the bruises and the stitches. They share a knowing smile before they glance back to their probie.

After what feels like forever, Jake and Ellie separate from their embrace, but he keeps a protective arm around her waist as they turn to the male agents.

"They're discharging Ellie," he says, swallowing hard, "and you too, Tim. You're welcome to come spend the night at our place. It's the least we can do."

"We've got a really comfy guest bed, McGee." Ellie's eyes light up. "And Jake makes a mean pancake."

"Blueberry, rhubarb, and bacon," he says, as though it could seal the deal.

Just thinking about the crimes Jake commits against breakfast food turns Tim's stomach. When he hazards a glance at Tony, the senior agent is busy inspecting his sling, so he looks back to Ellie and Jake.

Smiling politely, he shakes his head. "I think I'll stay here."

"Are you sure? The hospital won't discharge you unless you go home with someone who can take care of you." 'You have no one else to take you,' goes implied, but unspoken.

Tim presses his lips together and shakes his head anyway. He'll deal with the whole 'out of area next of kin' thing when he has to. Right now, he just needs to be with Tony.

Jake nods slowly. "Call Ellie tomorrow when you two get discharged. You'll stay with us as long as you need to."

"Only if you promise not to make us pancakes," Tony says.

Jake's eyes go wide. "What? Who doesn't – "

"It's okay, sweetie," Ellie assures as she leads him from the room. "You can make me pancakes."


	12. Epilogue

**4:01am - St. Boniface Medical Center Emergency Department – Washington, DC –**

Sitting in comfortable silence, Tim and Tony watch their teammate and her husband head down the hallway. Her grin is bright and elated, brimming with innocence and naivety. That's a probie's smile. Then Jake wraps his arm around her shoulders, obscuring her face, and they disappear from view.

Tim settles back in his chair, ready to pass out, but he can feel Tony studying him. Like his eyes are tracing every crevice and hollow on Tim's face as though he might solve some great secret.

With a huff, Tim sits up. "What?"

Tony's smile is strained, at best. "Do you remember when you used to be like that?"

Tim's eyes flick to the hallway. "You mean a probie?"

"Yeah." He half-nods.

"Of course, I do. Why?"

Tony opens his mouth, but seems to think better of it. Closing his eyes, he wavers until he shakes his head and slumps back against the bed. Based on the look on his face, Tim is pretty sure Tony has something on his mind.

Why won't he just blurt it out like he always does?

Nothing stops him from saying what he thinks in the bullpen. There, he'll crow and croon, the meaningless words flowing from his mouth like word vomit. But here and now, when they should actually matter, it's worse than pulling teeth.

Tim huffs again. "Tony, what is it?"

"Nothing, McGee."

"It's got to be something. You look really goofy."

There's no instantaneous comment about how Tim always looks goofy. Instead, Tony turns away and Tim knows he's right. His friend's face was a weird mix of regret and sadness with a pinch of nostalgia thrown in for good measure. The senior agent sighs like the impending conversation is probably a bad idea, but he's going to do it anyway.

"You used to come to me for help, Tim. Like Bishop does."

Taken aback, Tim laughs uncomfortably. "I do ask you for help. All the time."

"Not like you used to." Tony looks away. "Do you know how long it's been?"

"Wasn't it just last week?"

While Tim doesn't recall the last time, he thinks he might have recently asked Tony about a blood splatter analysis - Or did it have to do with the best way to interrogate their suspect? - but he decides against bringing up the specifics, just in case he's wrong.

Flicking his lip between his lower teeth, Tony shakes his head.

Tim makes a face.

So Tony keeps track of how many time he gets asked for advice. What purpose does it serve other than to make Tim feel like a lousy friend instead of a capable agent?

"Okay," Tim tries again, hoping he picks the right case. "Wasn't it for that case when the petty officer actually killed himself? No one pushed him and you showed me based off the fall trajectory, remember?"

Tim holds his breath until Tony nods. Before he can breathe a sigh of relief, Tony's face pulls into a tight frown. Shock bubbles inside Tim, slowly replacing his insides until there's nothing left. Until he's completely and utterly hollow.

_Did I say something wrong?_

"That was two years ago, McGee."

Puffing out his cheeks, Tim pushes the breath through his mouth. He stares at the backs of his hands, counting the number of scratches.

Why does this conversation terrify him more than their encounter with Mishnev?

He leans back in his chair, casting a sidelong glance at the door. Jake and Ellie didn't have too much of a head-start. If he leaves now, he might still stand a chance to catch them. Then he wouldn't have to –

"What happened to us, Tim?" Tony asks, voice bordering on a whisper.

The words catch Tim off-guard like a punch to the gut.

The following silence wedges itself between them, forcing them further apart. So far that Tim wonders whether they're even in the same room anymore. When their eyes meet, Tim jumps to his feet. The sudden movement makes his head spin, and he reaches for the support of the IV pole.

But Tony seizes Tim's moment of weakness. "We used to be friends."

Tim disguises his anxious laugh as a cough. "We are still…friends."

"Not really. We used to go to the bar for a drink and head back to your place for video games all the time." Tony waves his good hand as he thinks. "What did we play? The one with the army guys?"

"Call of Duty, and -" Tim smiles at the fleeting memory "– I kicked your ass every single time."

Tony shoots him an easy grin. "Only because I let you."

That remark earns him a skeptical look, but Tim lets Tony believe whatever he wants to.

"You know what," Tim says, "we haven't hung out since you started dating Zoe."

Tony laughs, shakes his head. "Try since you started dating Delilah. Why did we stop anyway?"

The room suddenly grows so hot Tim can't stand it. The walls start to close in around him, threatening to crush him just like the garbage pit tried to smash Luke Skywalker in _Star Wars_. When black spots prick to his vision, Tim sinks back into his chair. He massages his temples as though it'll make this moment pass. Make this awkward and uncomfortable conversation end.

But he opens his eyes to meet Tony's earnest, pleading gaze.

"Because you stopped showing up." There's no accusation or malice in Tim's tone. "I could only wait for you at the bar for so many times before I gave up. I left the controller out for you, door unlocked for weeks, but Tony, you never came."

"Well, you stopped acting interested whenever I suggested movie nights." Tony's features pinch. "You blew me off a bunch of times, too."

"Tony, we could only watch _Die Hard_ so many times before I knew the words by heart."

Tony makes a face. "There's no such thing as too many times for that movie. In the eternal words of John McClane, "Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker.' Would you have preferred _Mean Girls_ instead?"

"Oh good G-d, no." Tim's smile is genuine, but fleeting. "It just….it felt like you didn't need me after Ziva left. Like you outgrew me when you joined your men's group."

Tony's eyes grow as wide as they can. "That was when I needed you the most. Things got weird for me."

"You weren't the only one."

"I didn't know what to do. Remember how I tried to get you to come to the group with me?"

Tim bites his lip, winces. "I just wanted time with my friend. Video games and wine, not talking to a bunch of strangers about my feelings."

Tony flinches, telling Tim he hit a nerve. "I thought you could be there to support me."

"Then why didn't you tell me that?"

The shrug is careful and controlled, but Tim knows there's a torrent of emotion underneath. It's always obvious in Tony's eyes. That tiny flash of recognition, gone as quickly as it came.

"I don't know, Tim. I really, really don't know. Maybe it's time for us to be honest with each other, huh?"

Tim half-nods, surprised this conversation could get more awkward. "Support group for two."

"Something like that." Tony finds a spot on his bed extremely interesting as he blurts out: "I was ready to die for you today, McGee."

Tim gapes. "What, Tony? Why?"

"Because you're – " he takes a deep breath " – the closest thing to a brother I'll ever have. And I didn't want to face Gibbs without you and Bishop."

Shifting uncomfortably, Tim digs his fingernails into his chair. So this hospital room is turning into a confessional, letting both of them air everything they've never said. He wonders whether they'll talk about this come Monday morning, or whether all these feelings will be buried in the banter they share.

"I'd have died for you too, Tony." The tips of the senior agent's ears redden, telling Tim to pick something else. Move on before they start hugging it out and singing 'Kumbaya' to the time of the heart rate monitor. "I turned down a promotion last year as a senior agent in San Diego."

"Why? That's a great opportunity." Tony blinks, obviously shocked. "You'd have been near the beach."

"I thought Delilah was coming back. Plus, I still have more to learn from Gibbs." He holds Tony's gaze as he swallows hard. "From you."

"You're a good agent, Tim, but you're right. You need to learn my rules, too. Starting with DiNozzo Rule Twenty-Five, 'Never turn down a promotion that involves babes in bikinis.'"

Tim laughs. "Did you just make that up?"

"On the fly."

Both of them chuckle, settling back into their respective seats and their comfortable silence.

It's like the old days when they would relax on Tim's couch after a particularly hard case, bottle of wine and wineglasses on the floor, and killing whatever popped up in _Call of Duty._ Well, Tim would lead the massacre while Tony emptied his clip at the sky, the ground, random boxes, and whatever else couldn't run away.

For the first time in years, Tim has his friend back.

Tony smiles wryly. "Seems like we had a breakdown in communication, Tim."

Tim cocks an eyebrow. "Ya think?"

Tony chuckles. "You're starting to sound a lot like Gibbs over there, Probie."

Blinking, Tim leans back. The long-forgotten nickname is safe and familiar, like coming home. "Wow, you haven't called me that in a while. Doesn't it belong to Bishop now?"

"Not if you want it back."

He tucks his hands behind his head and grins. "I can't believe I'm about to admit this, but I missed it."

"Okay, it's yours again. I guess we'll have to give Bishop a new nickname. We'll have to call her Probelina or The Bish unless you have something better."

"I think either one of those'll do just fine." Tim snorts and shakes his head. "Thanks, Tony."

"You're welcome – " Tony grins, pausing for effect " - Probie."

Quiet settles over them again, comfortable and companionable. Spent from their emotional conversation and overwhelmed by his ordeals, Tim leans his head back against his chair. His eyes fall closed. His dreams reach for him again.

"Hey, McGee," Tony says.

Tim cracks an eyelid. "Yeah?"

Tony is toying with his sling again. "Can we have a video game night at your place?"

"Only if you learn how to shoot."

Tony genuinely laughs. "I'm a crack-shot with a Sig. Or so everyone tells me at the range."

"Well, yeah," Tim says, shrugging with one shoulder, "but you need to learn in the game."

The short pause almost puts Tim to sleep.

"Hey, I just had an idea," Tony says. "How about we talk about our feelings?"

Although he's drifting away, a smile rise to Tim's lips. "You know what, Tony? That's okay. Maybe we should just watch a movie instead. How about _Die Hard_?"


End file.
